The Platypus Hunt
by Rerin
Summary: Sherlock gets turned into a girl. Yep.
1. Chapter 1: Gender Irrelevance

_A/N: Not sure how many Sherlock-turned-into-a-girl stories there are out there, but this one needed to get writ. Trust me, all you_ _Johnlockers will like it._

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The Platypus Hunt

Chapter 1: Gender Irrelevance

Sherlock Holmes woke up and realized something was different. He was certain it was morning; the usual time. He had no idea what day it was, but of course if he needed to know something that mundane he could always just ask John. His room hadn't changed at all, either in its dimensions or in its content. All of his belongings were exactly as he'd left them. He blinked up at the ceiling, which looked exactly the same as it always had. But when he tried to roll over and go back to sleep, he suddenly understood.

A few minutes later, dressed in his clothes which no longer fit him properly, Sherlock barged into the living room where John was already enjoying breakfast behind a newspaper. "I've got a new case," he announced.

"What's happened to your voice?" John asked absently, not even looking up from his paper.

"I've been turned into a woman."

John quirked an eyebrow and sipped his tea. "Hilarious," he commented, continuing to read.

The dramatic moment spoiled, Sherlock flounced his way to his favorite chair and settled into it, breathing deeply as he began to think.

Everything was so normal that a full fifteen minutes went by before John set aside his paper and glanced at the female Sherlock sitting and thinking in Sherlock's chair. "Eh…" he uttered, blinking in confusion, and then fell silent. A half-laugh crossed his face, followed by a very full frown, and ending in a close-lipped grimace of acceptance. He dared to look again.

Undoubtedly, it _was _Sherlock. His face, only more feminine. His gawky frame, but with female features. His dark curly hair…but longer than Sherlock's had been yesterday.

"So," John ventured, folding his hands atop the newspaper on the table. "You've been turned into a woman."

Sherlock slid a cold eye in John's direction. "_Obviously_."

John grimaced again, nodding. "Yes, _obviously_, obviously… obviously a wig, and a very good make-up job, and some sort of…stuffed…bra or bodysuit or something. And, as a _very_ nice touch, you've bought a set of your normal clothes two sizes too big and put them on, creating the illusion that you've somehow shrunk six inches in height, overnight. Very brilliant, _but_…" he leaned across the table, earnestly. "_Why_ are you doing it?"

Sherlock turned that strange ashy color that would have been a flush of anger in a normal person. "That's the problem, John. _I'm_ not doing it. I woke up as the opposite sex."

John stared, and felt the first twinge of belief. "No," he scoffed, overriding it. "Nice trick, really. Like I said, hilarious. But no." He made to pick back up his newspaper, and Sherlock practically flew across the room at him.

"Why not?" Sherlock demanded, desperate. "Why don't you believe it? Can't you see this is real?"

Up close, the voice and the face and the…the _body_ all seemed extremely convincing. But still, John couldn't believe. "I see it, Sherlock," he said to be placating. "But I don't believe it. One of the few facts about you of which I am absolutely certain is that you are, in fact, a man. A male. People can't just wake up as the opposite sex."

"It's impossible," Sherlock agreed, staring at John. "But here I am, and I'm not hallucinating, unless we're both hallucinating. We need Mrs. Hudson!" He slammed his fist on the table, and John's face twitched at the recognition that it wasn't Sherlock's regular hand. "_Mrs. Hudson!_" Sherlock hollered, in the direction of the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson came up to their flat speedily enough, considering her hip. "Sherlock? What is it? Your voice sounds a bit off this morning, is it something to do with your experiments?" She caught sight of Sherlock and gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "_Sherlock?_ Is that you?"

"Good morning Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied, with a measured nod.

John felt a twinge of annoyance at how Sherlock seemed to be enjoying the attention. "It appears that he's been transformed into a woman," John explained, as a parent might explain that their child was currently enacting the role of an astronaut or a ninja.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, and looked back and forth between the two of them. "Is it permanent?"

"No idea," Sherlock said with a happy little smirk, and John's annoyance grew at how pleased he sounded. Another mystery to solve, wasn't it wonderful?

"And it isn't, I don't know, _injections_ or anything?" Mrs. Hudson asked, aghast.

"I didn't do this to myself intentionally, if that's what you're wondering," Sherlock clarified. "I just woke up in a completely female body."

John cleared his throat. "All right, that's enough." His annoyance had reached its peak. "We're both convinced; you're a girl. So tell us what's going on. Out with it."

Sherlock looked at him as if he'd never seen him before. "Out with what?"

"Your new case. The murder, the kidnapping, whatever it was. You've gone to great lengths here to prove that it's possible for a man to convincingly appear to be a woman; though I'm not sure why you bothered, since cross-dressers have been doing it for centuries. So my guess is that there's some case of mistaken gender, maybe the man with motive, the most likely suspect, couldn't be the perpetrator because witnesses swear it was woman—something like that?"

Sherlock smiled at him, so goddamn fondly amused, it made John feel like the world's biggest idiot. "Lovely deduction," Sherlock complimented him, making it even worse. "But the art of disguise does have its limits. Stand up, please."

John stood, not sure why he felt so wretchedly embarrassed. Sherlock walked over and stood next to him, lowering his gaze a lot less than usual to meet John's eyes. John realized it immediately—Sherlock had shrunk. He was still taller than John, but only by a few inches. "You're slouching," John accused.

"I assure you; I am not," Sherlock retorted, and shrugged out of his jacket, thrusting his shoulders back in his now-too-big-for-him shirt, which of course drew John's eyes like a magnet to Sherlock's utterly ridiculous, impossibly _womanly_ little breasts.

It had been a split-second slip, but it was enough to make John turn scarlet, and when his eyes reconnected with Sherlock's, Sherlock blinked at him with a miniscule tilt of his chin, which meant that he was puzzled.

Puzzled about John's reaction, clearly; Sherlock could usually decipher John's emotions, but in this case he was oblivious.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson interjected, understanding immediately. "Sherlock, Sherlock, you aren't wearing…undergarments…a bra?"

Sherlock frowned down at his new chest. "Of course not; I don't own one," he replied. John rolled his eyes with a long-suffering look, and turned to Mrs. Hudson, imploring her to save him.

"Mrs. Hudson, would you please…"

Mrs. Hudson cut him off. "Of course dear, no need to say another word. Sherlock, love, come with me." She beckoned him over, and Sherlock approached her, looking mystified. "This is a little out of Dr. Watson's depth, I'm afraid. If you're going to be a girl, we're going to have to take care of a few things for you," she said kindly.

Now Sherlock was taken aback, and whirled to face John. "Out of your _depth?_ Because I'm female? I never took you for a chauvinist."

"A chauvinist." John repeated, and let it sink in. He had a pretty high boiling point, he thought; but this was his limit. He raised his head with a motion like racking the slide back on a pistol. "A _chauvinist?_ I am not a chauvinist. And of course this is 'out of my depth'; it's beyond the realm of human experience! Unless you are faking it, which I still sincerely hope that you are, this situation is unknown to medical practice, to science, to history—nobody just turns into a girl, Sherlock, nobody. And even you can't possibly expect me to treat you as if nothing is different, when you're parading around here with, with, with—"

Sherlock took offense, or pretended to. "Breasts?" he suggested, quirking an eyebrow, and decided to take full advantage of the fact that John seemed temporarily unable to speak. Sherlock cupped his now-girlish hands over the womanly body parts in question, smooshing them together under the thin fabric of his shirt in a way that made John turn at least three shades redder.

Mrs. Hudson gasped and grabbed Sherlock's wrist. "Oh my. Sherlock," she scolded. "_Please_-You mustn't do that; it's terribly impolite, really! I supposed you don't know any better, but, it is rude. Come with me, now, downstairs. Let's go. Let poor John breathe for a moment."

Sherlock stared at the now-paralyzed John like a cat who'd caught some inferior creature but was uncertain whether or not it was edible.

Finally John looked down at the table, red, mad, and defeated. "Please just go," he managed tersely.

Sherlock allowed Mrs. Hudson to lead him down the stairs by his sleeve.

* * *

221B Baker Street remained deserted the rest of the day. John had fumed in the flat for a while, then gone out for a walk, and then for a drink, and then for another drink after that. Sherlock, meanwhile, spent the day updating his wardrobe to match his new gender, while Mrs. Hudson fussed over him and tried to impress upon him the finer points of social etiquette for females.

She also managed to direct him into the correct public restroom for his new anatomy, just in the nick of time.

"But I'm not _really_ a girl," Sherlock argued aloud in the middle of the shopping plaza, even though no one was arguing with him. Mrs. Hudson blinked at him. Sherlock sighed, ignoring the three or four incredulous glances he got from passersby. "I mean, physically, yes, now I'm a girl. But here…" he tapped his knuckle to his forehead. "I'm still exactly the same. Still me."

"Gender equality, then?" Mrs. Hudson ventured.

"More like gender irrelevance. However… I _have_ always thought of myself as male. Referred to myself in the masculine and so forth. I suppose I ought to adjust that now."

"If you think it's necessary," Mrs. Hudson said supportively.

Sherlock smiled. "It might help me pick the right lavatory next time," he muttered. He inhaled, looked around at his world, and resolved to think as a female from then on.

_She_, the female Sherlock, was trying on pairs of sensible walking shoes when Mrs. Hudson managed to bring up the most important subject: John. Sherlock _had _been a little surprised by her flatmate's anger earlier, so she listened patiently while Mrs. Hudson gave her all sorts of curious advice about how to interact with her one and only friend in the world, now that she was a member of the fairer sex.

"…just please remember, if he _does_ want to stay, you're going to have to treat him a little better now," Mrs. Hudson concluded.

"What's wrong with how I treat him?" Sherlock scoffed. "I think I know him well enough by now to know that he's not going to run off just because my voice is a little higher. If tomorrow I wake up in the body of a monkey with horns growing out of my head, that'd hardly be enough to scare John away."

Mrs. Hudson's distress was clear. "Oh dear, do you really think so?"

Sherlock rolled her eyes. "What I meant was, John didn't move in with me because I was tall and handsome. My physical appearance doesn't matter to him."

Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands, staring at Sherlock in dismay. "If you say so, dear, but…"

Sherlock picked up the little floor-level mirror that she'd been using to try on shoes, and angled it so it reflected her face. "For god's sake, Mrs. Hudson. I look practically the same as I did yesterday. Longer hair. Smaller nose. Zygomatic bones still pronounced. And I am still the same person. John and I will continue on exactly as before."

"But Sherlock, you haven't thought it through! What if he shows up with flowers and chocolates for you, the poor man. What will you do then?"

Sherlock put the mirror down. "Don't be absurd. He knows me better than that."

"I suppose time will tell," Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Only…do be careful? With John, I mean…please? He _is_ just a man after all and, well, I can't abide the thought of things going sour between the two of you."

* * *

When Sherlock returned home, she noted John's conspicuous absence, and quickly deduced that he was resolving his stress down at the pub. She settled in to do some blood work, to compare her current DNA with that of her formerly male self.

When the door finally did creak open in the early morning hours, Sherlock could tell from John's first three steps up the stairs that he was drunk.

"You're home late," she remarked as John appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Oh god," John groaned. "You're still a girl."

"Yes," Sherlock drawled, not looking at him.

John rubbed his eyes. "Right. Fine, that's fine. Goodnight then." He shuffled towards the stairs that led up to his room, unaware that Sherlock was staring at him.

"You're drunk," she couldn't help but point out. John gave a little laugh.

"Good. Observation," he slurred, putting a hand on the wall as he started up the steps.

"You don't usually drink to excess."

"Please Sherlock. Not now. Let me go—let me go to sleep." He pushed open the door to his bedroom and stumbled inside, but before he could find the door to close it again, Sherlock swept into the room behind him, rambling away.

"I realized earlier that this little gender incident had frazzled your nerves for some reason, but if you're feeling so overwhelmed that you're driven to drink I wish you would let me know. I might have needed you for something and you aren't nearly as useful when you're intoxicated."

John sat on the bed and squinted up at his flatmate. "So it's to be lectures from the wife now?"

"Wife? I was-" Sherlock uttered, and would have gone on, but John raised his voice and pointed back out at the stairs.

"Get out!" John all but shouted. "For god's sake. Ninety percent of the time you're off in your own world, why _now_ do you feel the need to hassle me? Leave me alone and get out."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, recalculating. "…I don't understand why you're angry."

John put his hands over his face and yelled into his palms. "Because _you're a bloody girl_ and it's impossible and you act like nothing is different even though it _changes everything_!"

"Changes everything?" Sherlock shook her head in disbelief. "That's what you think? Then you must be sexist after all; from _my_ perspective it doesn't change anything, other than my shoe size and how I use the toilet."

"The toilet." John groaned, falling sideways onto his pillow. "Oh god, no. The toilet," he muttered, closing his eyes.

Sherlock continued to ramble about something, but John was in no condition to process what she was saying. A few seconds later, John was out like a light.

* * *

A/N: yep, not much to say about this one yet... tbc.


	2. Chapter 2: Banter and Sarcasm

A/N: many thanks for the reviews, you all made my day. And now for more Girl!Sherlock... enjoy, you crazy fangirls.

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Chapter 2: Banter and Sarcasm

Morning dredged John into murky consciousness, only dimly remembering that he'd had some sort of fight with Sherlock the night before. When he finally made his way to the kitchen, the sight of his newly female flatmate brought the whole horrible truth rushing back.

"Morning," Sherlock greeted him.

"Morning," John replied, groggy.

"…you're being rather…cordial…" Sherlock pronounced, after neither of them had spoken for a handful of seconds.

"Sherlock I just got up, and I have a bit of a headache," John complained. "Mind if I make coffee?"

"Why would I mind if you made coffee?" Sherlock sniffed, feigning annoyance. John ignored her and opened the cupboard, oblivious to Sherlock watching him like a hawk.

"Any, uh, any ideas yet? About your, um, problem? What caused it?" John asked, pouring the water.

"Not really; genetic manipulation or mutation…requires further study."

"Might take a while then?" John asked, voice strained.

"It might. Will that bother you?" The coffee pot sputtered to life.

"It bothers me already," John grumbled.

Sherlock sighed and leaned back in her seat, kicking her feet up onto the table, crossed at the ankles. It was something the male Sherlock did all the time; but seeing the female Sherlock do it made John inexplicably furious. "John," Sherlock said in that all-knowing way, "If it's going to affect our relationship, we are going to have to sort out your attitude towards women."

"What's to sort out?" John protested. "My attitude towards women is perfectly fine."

Sherlock pursed her lips, nodding slowly. "I know you…like to date women?" she asked, and John gave her a look which clearly said, _why are you asking me this?_ "And…" Sherlock continued, diverting her gaze to the gradually filling coffee pot, "…you sleep with them?"

"When I can, yes," John admitted, feeling irritated.

"_Can_," Sherlock noted.

John swallowed and exchanged his right foot for his left, making Sherlock smile. She had always found it amusing that John changed his physical stance whenever he changed his tack in a conversation, as if the two were linked. "Alright, 'when I can' sounds bad. Whenever the girl is in the mood, I suppose. I don't know. Why are we talking about this?"

"It isn't as if you objectify women, though," Sherlock plowed on. "Women are people too?"

"Of course they are!"

"…But you wouldn't have moved into a flat with me if I was a woman from the start."

The coffee pot hissed, indicating it was finished brewing, and John practically lunged for it to pour himself a mug. The friendly smell of the coffee seemed to settle John's agitation a bit. He sighed. "No Sherlock, I wouldn't have."

"_Why_?"

John made a face halfway between a grin and a grimace, and stared down into his mug. "Of course you don't understand that."

"Old-fashioned sense of propriety?" Sherlock guessed.

"Partially, maybe, but not just that. Lots of reasons."

"You couldn't have a platonic female friend?" it was half question, half accusation.

"Oh, I could. In fact, I do. But I wouldn't want to live with one."

Now Sherlock looked insulted. "It won't be any different than before."

"See, there's where you're wrong." John sipped his coffee. "It's already different. And it's only going to get worse and more awkward the longer it goes on."

"Pessimism," Sherlock diagnosed. "Fear of change."

"No Sherlock, not pessimism, practicality. For one thing. And for another thing, since I'm sure you haven't thought of this, you mentioned I like to date women, and that's certainly true. But you already don't know how hard it is for me to keep a girlfriend, living with you and having you demand my attention all the time."

"I don't—" she began to protest, but John held up his hand to silence her.

"Yes you do. Can you imagine what girl would go out with me now, knowing I'm living with a beautiful woman? _Living with_. 'Oh, it's platonic,' I would say, and you think any of them would believe it for a second? No."

"Why not?"

"Because it doesn't work that way," John explained in a weary voice, pressing the hot mug to his forehead to soothe away some of the ache.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and John instinctively knew what she was about to say. "Because I'm a _beaut-_-"

John cut her off. "Well you aren't exactly my great-aunt Edna, are you?"

"You're not so bad looking yourself," Sherlock replied, meaning it as a joke. But John set down his coffee and pointed a finger right between her eyes.

"No. You know what you did, just there? That was flirting. Do _not _do that to me."

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that, which had an immensely calming effect on John. Without being asked, he poured Sherlock a mug and passed it to her. The two of them sat in silence for a moment, steam rising gently from their coffee.

"So you're moving out?" Sherlock asked at last, voice cold.

John looked at her in surprise. "I didn't say that."

"Mrs. Hudson warned me that you might bring the subject up."

"Well I haven't yet, have I?" John rubbed his temples. "Just… just let me get rid of this headache."

"Shall I bring up the paper?"

"You never bring up the paper," John muttered in suspicion, and then shook his head. "What next? Putting on a frilly apron and packing me a lunch?"

"Sexist joke?" Sherlock guessed.

"Sexist joke," John confirmed.

"Not flirting."

John coughed into his mug. "Friendly banter," he said, although his face was suddenly red. "But anyhow, you're still _you_, aren't you? Flirting doesn't register with you."

Sherlock smiled. "Doesn't stop them from trying, does it?"

A sudden thought dawned on John and he looked at Sherlock with genuine concern. "Speaking of, Sherlock, now that you're a woman, you're going to need to be careful. You're so used to snubbing everyone who was attracted to you as a man. That might be dangerous now the tables are turned."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Really? You suggesting some men might not want to take 'no' for an answer? Mrs. Hudson was right."

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"She told me you'd want to watch out for me. Defend my virtue, or something along those lines. So utterly quaint."

"I've always watched out for you," John reminded him. "But Mrs. Hudson wasn't wrong. As a female you are going to be even more—"

"_Vulnerable?_" Sherlock spat the word in disgust. "Please John. Don't insult me."

"I was going to say, more likely to make _men_ furious at you. I'd go far as to say that everything people found infuriating about the male Sherlock is going to be twice as infuriating coming from a woman."

"Speaking from personal perspective, are you?"

John sighed. "Definitely. So it _would_ be decent of you to try to avoid pissing me off."

"Once again, you and Mrs. Hudson have similar advice for me," Sherlock noted. "She said I ought to be nicer to you."

"And you think that's rubbish," John realized.

"A complete load of it. Both you and our fretful landlady seem to fear that my gender will alter our present relationship. The one way to guarantee that undesirable outcome is to change the way in which we interact. Therefore, I do not intend to treat you any differently than before."

"Wonderful," John proclaimed. "Same as always, good. So what's first? Research on sex-changing fish and lizards, interviews with local transgendered people, phone call to our old friends at Baskerville? Let me know how to help."

A smile flickered on Sherlock's face. "See? We'll be fine. I knew you wouldn't be driven off by a small confusion of chromosomes."

John stared at her in resignation and honest commitment. "I'll try my best," he promised. "Like you said, we'll keep things the same. That's the deal. But you've got to cooperate. No more lounging about in a bed sheet. And no more barging in on me when I'm in the shower."

"I only did that the one time. It was _platypus venom_, John! If that's not worth interrupting a shower for, I don't know what is."

"The poor dog had been dead and sitting in our fridge for five days at that point. It could have waited another five minutes," John groused.

Sherlock pursed her lips and looked determinedly out the window. "We _are_ going to find that platypus," she muttered. "I've several new ideas for traps."

John rolled his eyes. "You and me are going platypus hunting again? Right. Same as always."

"Not you and me, John. _You and I_."

"Well, thank god turning female hasn't turned you into less of a prick."

"Friendly banter?" Sherlock asked.

"Nope, plain old sarcasm that time."

"Ah." Sherlock had rarely looked so pleased. "This is going to be fun."

John's face clouded with worry whenever Sherlock used that particular three-lettered word, and this time was no exception. He set his mug on the table with an ominous-sounding clunk. "Sorry, what's going to be fun?"

"Proving our landlady wrong, for starters," Sherlock stated, matter-of-fact. "I'll have my cake and eat it too."

John gave his head a little half-shake. "Just to be clear… I'm not your _cake_, I hope?"

"What I meant was, I'll still be myself, _and_ I'll still have _you_ on my side. I won't have to bat my eyelashes at you to keep you around."

"Is _that_ what Mrs. Hudson suggested?" John asked, aghast. "Sherlock, if you start batting your eyelashes at me, I will run for the hills."

"Thank you. And to think Mrs. Hudson was worried about flowers and chocolates."

John turned red all over again. "I _would_ move out before it got to that point."

"Does it usually 'get to that point' so predictably?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. My male friends don't _usually_ turn into girls, and my female friends aren't _usually_ consulting detectives sharing a flat with me so I'm _not really_ qualified to say how these sorts of situations unfold."

"Mrs. Hudson seems to think it's a foregone conclusion," Sherlock sniffed.

"What, that I'll move out?"

"That you'll be attracted to me," Sherlock corrected him, finishing the last sip of her coffee. She'd spoken so dismissively that it took her a full minute to identify the awkward silence that followed. She tilted her chin at John, incredulous. "That _is _what we've been…wait… you're _not_, are you?"

John blinked, and blinked some more, and thought about how to answer, and changed his mind, and finally looked right into her colorless eyes. "_Would you like me to be?_" he asked, and before she could react he looked away, and raised a finger to tap an imaginary point in the air. "…And _that_ was flirting! Did you enjoy it? Of course not, because you're Sherlock Holmes. So I won't be doing it again. We will stick to the plan, same as always, banter and sarcasm from here on out. See the difference? Good. Figured you could use a little practice for what you'll be dealing with, out there." He indicated the world with a casual sweep of his hand.

"I see," Sherlock said, unperturbed. "And I still say it's going to be fun. For the first time in my life, I cannot wait to hear what my brother will say."

* * *

A/N: good lord, I am completely in love with John Watson. So, readers... whatdja think?


	3. Chapter 3: the Carotene Incident

Chapter 3: the Carotene Incident

"Very pretty," Mycroft said dismissively, barely even looking up from his desk.

John bit his lip to keep from commenting as Sherlock glared at her brother. "That's it?" Sherlock snapped. "Your own brother has turned into a woman and all you can offer is a pedestrian compliment on my appearance?"

Mycroft sighed, slowly, blinked a few times, also slowly, and finally folded his hands in front of his mouth. "John, why did my brother come here today?" Mycroft asked, wearily.

"To, ehm, to show you what happened," John provided, feeling a little stupid as he said it.

"But why? Does he want me to _scold _him? Does he want me to be impressed? Does he want me to exclaim, 'I can't believe it!' so he can feel superior? He may not understand this, but I _do_ have more important things to do than play with him."

"I'm not playing!" Sherlock insisted. "This is real. I didn't do it. It just happened to me."

Mycroft stared at her, scanning her from head to toe with nearly _digital_ objectivity, and John felt the chill of those eyes even though he wasn't in their focus. This was definitely _The Ice-Man_.

"So you are actually, physically, a female now," Mycroft said, with ample doubt.

"Yes," Sherlock insisted.

Mycroft turned his head. "John, have you verified this?" he asked.

John wondered if he could just get a sunburn somehow to spare himself the trouble of turning red so often. "Well I haven't looked up her skirt, if that's what you're asking," he said, trying not to sound offended. "But I _am_ convinced of it, all the same."

"Thank you John," Sherlock said curtly, and gave Mycroft an extra scowl.

Now Mycroft was studying John with the full power of his attention. "Sherlock," he said carefully. "Will you step out for a moment? I need to speak with John, alone."

Sherlock scrunched up her face, not liking it at all, but also not having a good enough reason to refuse. She marched herself out and closed the door behind her.

* * *

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead. "All right. _Please_ tell me what is going on."

John shook his head. "I didn't believe it either, at first. I thought it must be some kind of experiment or maybe a trick, something to prove a point in a case, but, it really isn't."

Mycroft left his eyes closed, breathing through his nose. "And so we have crossed the line," he muttered, almost sad.

"Sorry?" John asked, seeking clarification.

"To change a man into a woman, overnight," Mycroft mused. "Is impossible. We've left the realm of modern science. Do you know, when Sherlock was six years old, he once turned himself orange?" John shook his head no; he hadn't heard this story. Mycroft went on: "He swore up and down he hadn't done it on purpose; it had just happened overnight. But eventually he revealed that he _had_ done something, and had set it up for _me _to figure out what."

"So what did you do?" John asked, fighting an uneasy feeling.

"He was a monstrous brat at six," Mycroft began as an obvious caveat. "And I wasn't as…patient…as I am now. It was an annoyance; I didn't have time to go rifling through his little chemistry set. So I hit him, until he told me how he'd done it."

"Amazing," John said, voice and smile tight.

"What is?" Mycroft asked, not following.

"That he didn't turn into a supervillain," John deadpanned.

Mycroft's eyebrows climbed. "Why do you think I worry about him so much? Thank god the serial killers keep him occupied; can you imagine what would happen if he felt the need to go about setting up _puzzles_ for me to solve here and now? Far better for the common good that I beat that tendency out of him at an early age."

John's anger flared. "Right. But if you're suggesting we haul him in and spank a confession out of him today, sorry, but you're on your own. That's a little too kinky for me."

Mycroft smiled the most terrifying little smile that John had ever seen. "I wasn't suggesting anything of the sort. In this case, a confession would do us little good. Regardless of how it happened, he isn't faking it. So now we must consider how to proceed."

"What do you mean?"

"Think of the publicity, John. And the repercussions. If you let him run about as he's always done, someone will notice and there will be a field day. A spontaneous sex-change? Sensational news. Imagine the interviews, the experts, the doctors and scientists and the media crowding around for a chance to examine and exploit him. Being biologically related to him, there's even a chance that some unwanted attention may fall on me; which _must_ be prevented. Of course there are genetic research facilities on at least four continents that would love to take charge of him. I could arrange his disappearance now and avoid all the inconvenience of a scandal."

John stared at him, processing all that. "Wait a minute… arrange his disappearance to another life somewhere, or arrange his disappearance straight into some underground laboratory?"

"Which do you think?" Mycroft asked calmly, hands still folded so neatly and properly in front of him.

"Neither," John blurted out. "This is completely mad. You're not bundling her off anywhere; I won't let you."

"Interesting," Mycroft noted. "You switched the pronoun. A moment ago it was 'him', now it's 'her'?"

"It's _Sherlock_," John said. "Male or female, doesn't matter. Sherlock is still the exact same person and still my friend."

Mycroft considered a moment. John could all but see the turbines spinning in his brain. "I see it now," Mycroft said at last, softly surprised. "So simple, yes. You're going to act as if nothing has changed."

"Yes," John confirmed.

"And so the story will be that Sherlock has been female all along."

"Wait, _what?_"

"Oh, think about it," Mycroft urged, sounding a bit like Sherlock in his eagerness for John to understand. "It's the only plausible solution. When they find out, you laugh and say Sherlock was a girl all along; she'd been disguising herself as a man all these years. There will be a scandal, but it will die down. No need for tedious genetic research; much easier to accept the idea of an eccentric detective creating a public persona by disguising her gender. If anyone is really curious, give a show of Sherlock recreating her male self; body suit to smooth out the torso, clever stilted shoes to give the extra height, jacket with ingenious shoulder pads; facial prosthetics to rebuild the jaw and nose, brilliant prosthetic hands she can slip on over her real hands like gloves. And you, of course, are the key. It's perfect."

"Sorry—I'm what?"

Mycroft laughed. "Her boyfriend. Moved in with her last year; finally convinced her it wasn't necessary for her to keep on masquerading a man. So everything is resolved to the public's satisfaction; a curious case of cross-dressing has a happy ending. Nothing unusual at all about a woman living with her loving, heterosexual male partner; it actually explains everything."

John's face was radiating heat again. "I am not going to pretend to be her boyfriend," he declared, adamant.

Mycroft looked at him with cool amusement, and raised an eyebrow. "Who said you'd be _pretending?_"

John's face flashed through a series of emotions, and settled on determination. "No," he replied. "Sorry; it's _not _going to happen. Sherlock and I talked about this, sort of. We're going to keep working on cases-"

"—and you're going to _ignore_ being physically attracted to her?" Mycroft asked, as if it were the stupidest idea he'd ever heard of.

"Yes," said John. "Because what's the alternative? I go head over heels and Sherlock's uninterested as always, shoots me down and sends me crawling out into the world alone? It would be a disaster; it would ruin everything. So yes, I'll be keeping her off limits. I won't even _consider_ being attracted to her. Better to keep things as they are; girlfriends on the side for me, couple of bizarre murders for Sherlock or whatever does the trick for her, our own little domestic world in the middle, and everything will be fine."

"Good lord," Mycroft muttered. "Is that really my dear brother's plan?"

"It is," John nodded. "And I'm going to follow it. Sorry I can't help you scheme up something more convenient."

Mycroft gave John a long, thoughtful look. "All right," he said at last. "You can go. And send Sherlock in, will you?"

* * *

Once he was on the other side of the door, John heaved a sigh of relief. Sherlock was waiting for him, standing stone-still with her hands clasped behind her back.

"It was carotene," Sherlock said, meeting his eyes.

"What?"

"How I turned my skin orange, as a kid," Sherlock clarified. "He told you that story, didn't he? I figured he would. He told you I probably crafted this gender switch and am now denying it, the way I originally denied the carotene incident."

"Yes, well, _then_ I think he tried to convince me to have you committed to a genetic research facility," John related.

Sherlock smiled. "Oh, but you told him _no_."

"And I meant it," John said firmly.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, with no small amount of fondness.

"He wants to talk to you now," John told her. Sherlock's eyes focused on the door as if burning through it.

"I know," she said gravely, and pushed the door open, prepared for battle.

* * *

Once she was alone with her brother they didn't waste any words.

"Loyal of him," Mycroft remarked.

"Entirely," Sherlock agreed.

"You've considered playing it as though you've been female all along?"

"Naturally."

"Lestrade will help you," Mycroft mentioned, scrolling through something on his phone. "And in order to minimize the media exposure-"

"I only wanted you to be informed," Sherlock cut him off. "I don't need you to call in any favors for me."

Mycroft sighed. "And…whatever _are _you going to do about poor John Watson? Finally going to start experimenting with sex?" he was teasing, overt and just a bit cruel.

Sherlock scoffed, shrugging her shoulders a little. "Of course."

Mycroft blinked, and Sherlock rejoiced in silence. She had only said it for the chance to see that blank look on Mycroft's face; his brain scrambling, spinning, trying to right itself. Mycroft might as well have been dangling upside down from a carnival ride, he looked so disoriented.

"Ah yes," Mycroft recovered at last. "_'Funny'_ never was your strong suit."

"I'm serious," Sherlock insisted. "Sex is a physical thing, so now that I'm physically compatible with John's preferences, I can't see any reason why we shouldn't try it. It's not as if it's completely out of the realm of possibility that I could enjoy it."

There was a flicker of anger then; almost more rewarding than the confusion had been. "Have a care, brother," Mycroft said, quietly. "That man is completely devoted to you. Do not take advantage of his feelings. Do not underestimate him."

"_Really, _Mycroft? The '_power of love_' speech? From _you?_" Sherlock shook her head, narrowing her eyes in smug disdain. "Remind me, _what_ do you pay all your pretty assistants for?"

Mycroft decided not to dignify that with a response.

"Sherlock, this is about _John_. I've imagined that you genuinely care for him," Mycroft said, utterly solemn. "Don't break his heart in a game that he isn't even aware of playing."

* * *

_A/N: to be continued. For the record, I don't think Mycroft was overly evil as an elder brother to little Sherlock. I mean, I used to beat up MY younger siblings all the time; we all get along fine now. Though Sherlock might be the sort to hold on to a childhood grudge a little longer than most people. Grin. _


	4. Chapter 4: Game of Charades

A/N: Reviewers, you are the best people ever. I've been wandering around Nevada for the past three weeks with no internet, so that's why you haven't heard from me. The next few chapters will be posted in relatively quick succession to make up for it. Little boring, this chapter, so you've been warned.

* * *

Chapter 4: Game of Charades

John had only been waiting for a few minutes when Sherlock came barging out of Mycroft's office.

"Come on John, we're going home," she announced, striding towards the exit.

"You're looking rather pleased with yourself," John observed, half-trotting to keep up with her.

"Am I?" Sherlock asked with a curling smile. "Well, that's to be expected when I've just ruffled Mycroft's impeccable feathers."

"Ruffled?" John frowned. "You sure that was '_ruffled_'?"

"Mm," Sherlock confirmed, but John knew from her smirk that there was something she wasn't telling him.

John instinctively grabbed the door as they made their way outside, and only after Sherlock glanced at him funnily on her way past him did he stop and second-guess; surely he'd held the door plenty of times for the male Sherlock…hadn't he?

They settled into a cab for the trip back to Baker Street. Sherlock looked out the window distractedly, rubbing the heels of her palms against the tops of her splayed knees—something the male Sherlock did sometimes while thinking, but which was definitely an odd thing for a woman to do, even while wearing slacks.

John shifted in his seat uncomfortably and finally leaned over, clearing his throat to get Sherlock's attention. Identifying that John had something to tell her that was probably not meant for the ears of the cabbie, Sherlock bent sideways, moving her ear closer to John's mouth. She smiled as she heard him take a breath, up close.

"Em, Sherlock, I really don't want to be pointing this out to you," John began in a low voice, "but if you ever want to wear a _skirt_, you can't sit like that."

Sherlock frowned, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

John rolled his eyes and scooted back to his own side of the cab. He gave Sherlock a pointed look, mimicking her body position with his knees apart. Then, canting his head in an overtly effeminate manner, he straightened up and very deliberately brought his knees together, indicating that Sherlock should follow suit.

Sherlock's face broke into a brilliant grin. Obediently, she adjusted her pose and drew her knees together in a graceful motion, which John's eyes couldn't help but watch. John swallowed.

"You're quite good at that," Sherlock complimented him.

"Good at what?" John asked, a bit defensive.

"The nonverbals. I bet you're fantastic at a game of Charades," she hypothesized.

John shook his head with a self-deprecating smile, instantly relaxed. "Next time we have some people over, I will gladly prove how wrong you are about that."

They both looked out the windows then, watching the street fly by in comfortable silence. Until John happened to look up at the driver's rear-view mirror, and caught the cabbie staring at Sherlock.

John's mouth tightened as he considered making a comment, but then he told himself it was nothing, and looked away. But a few seconds later, his eyes flicked back to the mirror, just in time to see the cabbie giving Sherlock another lingering look.

John knew exactly what the cabbie was up to; he was ogling the fine-looking woman riding in his cab. In the back of John's mind there was some reason why he shouldn't be bothered by that; after all, however awkward and angular the male Sherlock had been, the female version was definitely at least a nine-point-five. But that reason never made it to the surface, and John found himself taking offense to the cabbie's lecherous gaze.

"Excuse me," John spoke up. "You mind keeping your eyes on the road?"

"Eh, sorry," the cabbie muttered, sparing a glance at John. "Been together long, you two?"

John had his mouth open to reply when Sherlock cut him off. "A year," she answered brightly. She reached for John's hand, and after John jerked it away from her, she pouted and seized hold of his hand anyway. Not knowing what else to do, John watched in shock as Sherlock intertwined her fingers with his. "He's the best," she said, in that same fake voice that Sherlock sometimes used, and she squeezed his hand.

_Why the squeeze? Does she want me to squeeze back?_ John's brain was trying its hardest not to short-circuit. _Damn you, Sherlock, what are you up to?_ He looked up at the rear-view mirror again and met the cabbie's eyes. The expression on the cabbie's face told him that he must be doing something wrong. _Game of Charades_, John's mind suddenly recalled. _Was that supposed to be a hint? Am I supposed to be playing a part right now?_

Deciding on a course of action, he pulled his hand away from Sherlock's grasp. "All right, if you're trying to ask me for something you can just come out and say so," he said. "No need to butter me up in front of the cabbie."

The cabbie's smirk indicated that John was back on track. Sherlock pouted even more, and was so maddeningly _pretty _about it, John thought he might want to punch her in the face.

"I was just thinking we really _should_ have some people over," Sherlock said with all manner of feigned, feminine inflection. "Definitely soon. Maybe tonight?"

"So we can _play Charades?_" John asked, not caring if he was giving it away.

"I want to show our friends all the _changes_ we've made," Sherlock continued playfully.

John's eyes widened as he realized what she meant, and then he shook his head. "I… really don't think that's a good idea."

"Woo, better watch out, mate," the cabbie interjected, all too happy to be in the middle of a little lover's quarrel. "This gal, I can tell, she's the type who's used to getting what she wants." He cast a wink at Sherlock's reflection in his mirror. "Innit that right, love?"

"If we don't do it all at once, we'll have to show them one at a time," Sherlock warned. The fact that she had ignored the cabbie's wink and ingratiating remark made John feel very slightly better.

"Considering how…drastic…the changes are, I think one at a time would be best," said John.

"Come off it," the cabbie criticized. "Your girl wants a party; I say you throw her a party."

"First of all," John lashed out, but then caught himself. "First of all," he pressed on in a calmer voice, "there's not going to be a party, not in this case."

The cabbie looked back sympathetically at Sherlock. "You ever want someone who treats you better, you let me know," he said to her, and Sherlock smiled at him.

"Don't let him fool you," she said, her regular voice reemerging. "I'm the center of his universe."

John rolled his eyes and gave a long-suffering sigh, but knew it was pointless to argue.

* * *

They made it back to their flat without further incident, and John made sure to give the cabbie a scowl as he paid the fare. Then it was up the steps and home, and Sherlock immediately seemed to forget that John existed.

"So…" John hazarded, lowering himself into a chair. "Care to explain yourself?"

"You figured it out," Sherlock replied, rifling through a cupboard.

"Yes, but why grab my hand? That was a bit unnecessary."

Sherlock ignored him. "I have to go to the morgue," she muttered.

John sighed, realizing he wasn't going to get any straight answers out of her in her current state of mind. He pulled out his phone. "Need me to text Molly?"

Sherlock had found the particular heap of things she'd been searching for, and was busily stuffing documents into a briefcase. "What, and ruin the surprise?"

"Oh god, you're going to give the poor girl a heart attack," John scolded. Sherlock grinned and tossed him the briefcase.

"Take this to Lestrade for me, and do please inform him that even his stupidest drone can figure out which suspect killed that stewardess if they'll just read these phone records and pay attention to the dates and times each man made phone calls to New Delhi."

"Okay, I can do that… and do you want me to mention your, um, gender issue?"

Sherlock trapped him in the laser-focus of her eyes. "Yes, precisely."

"You solved the stewardess case a week ago," John accused.

"But I felt it was _so_ easy, so _basic _that I wanted Scotland Yard to do it for themselves," Sherlock whined. "Surely they're capable of handling a mysterious murder without me, once in a while."

"Nope," John realized. "That's not it. You don't miss a chance to show up the police. What's really happened is that you were tired of Lestrade taking orders from Mycroft, so you decided to accumulate some bargaining chips for yourself."

Sherlock got that fond look on her face that meant John had done something clever. "And as far as bargaining chips go, how much of Detective Inspector Lestrade's cooperation do you think the answer to the stewardess case will buy us?"

"I guess we'll find out," John said.

* * *

Molly Hooper was sitting at her desk, transferring data from her notes into her computer. It was a tedious process, one that didn't require much in the way of concentration, so her thoughts wandered—and inevitably they wandered onto the subject of one tall, dark and handsome consulting detective, whose eccentric behavior, startling as it was sometimes, really only made him more endearing. He was just not like ordinary people, Molly thought. He was so detached, so…_cold_ in a way, but Molly could sense that there was more to him than his aloof exterior. He was simply so brilliant, so genius, and so _standing right behind her?!_

"Hello, Molly," said a voice—_that_ voice, mostly, except different somehow. Molly whirled to face him—no—_her?!_

Molly put her hand over her mouth and _laughed_, more open and carefree than Sherlock had ever heard her laugh before. "Sh-sher-Sherlock, is that really you?" she gasped at last.

"It's really me," Sherlock confirmed, struggling to analyze Molly's reaction.

"You're always sneaking up on me," Molly accused, straightening her lab coat and standing up to face her visitor. "So…I have to ask, why are you a girl?" She couldn't get through her question without giggling.

"Would you believe I've been female all along?" Sherlock tested.

Molly laughed again. "No, not for a minute," she said, shaking her head. "I _saw _you, remember? With your shirt off," she blushed at the memory, but that she could even mention that incident aloud was…an anomaly.

"Well, that's the story we're going with, so if anyone asks you…"

"Got it," Molly said immediately, no questions asked. "Best of friends, me and you. Always confiding in each other in the ladies' locker room and so on."

"…Thank you…" Sherlock said slowly, looking at Molly as if she'd never seen her before. Sherlock had always known that Molly was smart, but usually her girlish infatuation with Sherlock inhibited the expression of her intelligence. Which didn't seem to be the case anymore…

"But Sherlock, seriously. How did you… how did it happen?" Molly asked, with enthusiasm rather than her usual trepidation.

"No idea," Sherlock admitted, and Molly burst into giggles again. "Why are you laughing?"

"Because it's impossible," Molly managed to squeak. "But you're Sherlock Holmes, so why not? You figure out impossible things every day, you see things that are invisible to other people—so why not have something impossible as this happen to you? It's too funny! I love it."

"You seem so much more…relaxed around me," Sherlock noted.

"Yes, well, I suppose I would be, now that you're really a girl," said Molly, smiling with her entire face. Usually her smiles were timid little stretches of her lips, eyes left wide and helpless. From Sherlock's perspective, the total change in Molly's demeanor was getting more interesting by the second.

"I'm not sure I understand," Sherlock said carefully, clasping her hands behind her back. "Despite how timorous and feeble you seemed, I never suspected you were afraid of men."

"Afraid of men? No, of course not!" Molly exclaimed. "I like men, I mean, obviously I like them just fine. It's just… you were so… I had a monstrous crush on you!"

"And now suddenly you _don't_?"

Molly burst into a fresh fit of giggles. "You really have no idea how it works, having a crush on someone? I used to imagine you, oh my god, I can't even tell you how I stared at your shoulders, and your _hands_, oh god!"

"I still have shoulders and hands," Sherlock pointed out. Molly just shook her head and laughed.

"Looking at you now, as a girl, the only thing I want to do is help you with your hair—and put some makeup on you! I bet you don't know the first thing about making up your face. Please will you let me? I can take my lunch break now—it will be so, so fun for me. Please say yes!"

Sherlock blinked, having no idea what she'd just gotten herself into. "Molly, based on what I've seen of your unfortunate attempts at enhancing your own beauty, I doubt you're the person I should trust for cosmetic advice."

Molly only laughed again, clapping her hands in front of her mouth. "Oh, still so mean to me, just like always! But it really doesn't fluster me now. It's just not the same. It's quite funny now. And I can tell you don't have any real reason to say no."

"I…" Sherlock balked, recalculating. "You're right," she concluded at last. "I don't know anything about makeup, other than that it sometimes looks garish and desperate when it's on _you_—and you're laughing again, am I really that funny?"

"You are!" Molly squeaked. "Oh yes, you really are!"

"Anyway, what I was trying to say is that I suppose a little cosmetic experiment couldn't do any harm, so, lead on."

"Stay right here," Molly instructed. "I'll get my kit!"

* * *

A/N: This story is getting a bit more complex than intended... but I promise, if you love Johnlock as much I love Johnlock, it'll be worth your while to stick around. Grin.


	5. Chapter 5: Lovely Eyes

A/N: Remember when Lestrade's estranged wife was sleeping with a PE teacher, according to Sherlock? Let's go ahead and assume Lestrade and his wife never got back together...

* * *

Chapter 5: Lovely Eyes

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade flipped through the pages in his hand, Doctor John Watson waiting patiently beside his desk. The DI sighed, frowned, rubbed his face, scratched his arm where the nicotine patch was hiding under his sleeve. Finally he slammed the papers down.

"I don't get it," he declared.

"Sherlock said to look at the calls to New Delhi?" John suggested helpfully.

"If it was easy as that, he would've solved it a week ago," Lestrade muttered, and then a glance at John's face told him everything. "…of course. He _did_ solve it a week ago." Lestrade groaned and leaned back in his chair, kicking his feet up on the desk, right on top of the case-solving phone records. "So why keep it til now? He must want something."

John nodded, made a face, and adjusted his stance. "There's no easy way to tell you this, so I guess I'll just say it," John began, apologetic look already in place. "The thing is, ehm, Sherlock's been turned into a girl."

Silence.

"He _what?_" Lestrade asked finally.

"He's turned into a girl. Don't ask me how; it just happened. Mycroft says we'll have to pretend he's been a girl all along, to avoid a media frenzy."

"_Turned_ into a girl?" Lestrade repeated. "You mean like a, ah, a _transgender_ thing with a surgery and all?"

"No, no, there wasn't a surgery, I don't think," John said awkwardly, shifting his weight again. "He just woke up, and bam." John made a sweeping motion from his shoulders down, indicating his whole body. "Female."

Lestrade shook his head. "Insane."

"Don't I know it," John muttered.

Lestrade canted his chin and looked at John from a different angle. "She pretty decent-looking, at least?"

John made the world's most incredulous face. "This is the first known case of spontaneous gender-change in a human. What does it matter if she's good-looking?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Yeah, but is she?"

John gave his best _'you really want me to answer that?'_ expression, implored an unseen entity in the ceiling for help, and then met Lestrade's eyes with a full-on, kid-you-not stare. "Stunning."

"You for real?" Lestrade laughed.

"I'm serious, Greg, it's uncanny. I don't know what… I can't even process it."

Lestrade quirked an eyebrow at him. "Too bad for you he _wasn't _a girl all along then, eh?"

"No, it's not like that, I mean, no… I really don't know," John said helplessly. "Part of me wants my friend back, but why? He or _she,_ Sherlock's still there, still the exact same mad, amazing brain. Just…"

"Different body," Lestrade said, and put his feet back on the floor to stand up. "Well, good thing today was looking like a boring day at the office anyway. Because _this_ I have to see for myself!"

* * *

_You still at the morgue?_ John texted.

_Molly's office upstairs_, Sherlock texted back.

Molly was just putting the final layer of lip gloss on her subject when John and Lestrade came through the door, and Sherlock turned around in her seat to face them with a partially bored and extremely superior-to-normal-humans expression on her face.

The result was instantly comical, as both John and Lestrade were literally stopped in their tracks by the sight of Sherlock's made-up-like-a-model face. John actually put his hand up in front of him, as if to shield himself from the assault of Sherlock's sharp silvery eyes, which were so unexpectedly honed by eyeliner, eye shadow and dark, thick mascara. Meanwhile, the force of those same eyes seemed to actually push Lestrade backwards, and the man nearly tripped over his own feet in his hurry to back up, instinctively retreating to some safer ground where Sherlock was not a female and didn't have _those eyes_.

"Dear God, what've you done?" Lestrade exclaimed, at the same time as John demanded, "for goodness sake Sherlock are you trying to kill me?"

Sherlock smiled, which made her look terrifyingly cruel in the way only a beautiful woman can. "Hello Lestrade," she drawled. "I trust the murdered stewardess isn't troubling you any longer?"

John swung his attention to Molly. "Did you do this?" he asked, aghast.

Molly nodded cheerfully. "It looks _really_ good, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, if _good_ means 'able to paralyze a man all the way across a bloody street'," Lestrade huffed, looking as if he hadn't quite regained his balance.

Molly's grin faltered. "So… not good?" she asked timidly.

"It's the freaking eyes," Lestrade complained. "They're killing me."

"Interesting," Sherlock remarked, steepling her fingers in front of her mouth. "I suppose I can excuse _your_ reaction, Lestrade, since you hadn't seen me as a female before this, but John, you surprise me. Your initial reaction was to ask if I was trying to kill you. Explain."

John was still holding his hand out, either to keep the made-up Sherlock at bay or preparing to block the sight of her from his eyes, or maybe both. "Greg's right, Sherlock. Maybe I've gotten used to your girly face by now, but I've never seen your, er, your _eyelashes_ like this."

"All I did was darken them a bit to bring them out," Molly explained. "You could hardly see them before!"

"Exactly," John said. "And we really don't need to see them now—Sherlock, remember what I said about you batting your eyelashes at me?"

"That it would send you running for the hills?" Sherlock recited, giving an experimental little flutter of her lashes anyway, just to be difficult.

"Well, if you keep them primped up like that, you won't even need to bat them," John warned.

Sherlock cocked her head to one side. "You really think the effect is that dramatic?"

"Gods yes," Lestrade spoke up. "And it's totally unnecessary. You've always had lovely eyes. No need for all that paint around them."

It took Lestrade a minute to realize that Molly and John and Sherlock were all staring at him. "You all know what I meant," he muttered at last, turning a bit pink. "I just meant that light blueish color or whatever. Doesn't need help standing out, does it?"

Sherlock raised both eyebrows and looked away. "Well _that _was awkward," she remarked, and picked up the hand mirror Molly offered her.

"I think it looks brilliant," said Molly.

"Yes," Sherlock said, evaluating her reflection. "Thank you Molly, it is much better than I expected. But I will need to clean it off, before I drive off my flatmate and send our poor DI into cardiac arrest."

"No problem," Molly said graciously, handing Sherlock a wipe for her face. "I can see how the, ah, the _men_ might take a little while to get used to you being a girl and all."

"Hmf," scoffed Sherlock, rubbing away all of Molly's efforts. "John's gotten used to it."

Now that Sherlock's back was turned to him, John looked at Molly desperately and mouthed the words: "_No I haven't!" _…which of course made Molly giggle.

"Well I don't think I ever will," Lestrade stated. "This is too weird, Sherlock, even for you."

"I am going to try and keep under the radar, for now," Sherlock informed him. "But if word _were_ to get out, would you help validate the story that I've been female all along?"

"Sure, I suppose," Lestrade agreed. "But from now on, if you need a favor, you don't have to go about it by bartering information. You can just buy me a drink instead."

John did a double take, Molly brought her hand to her mouth in shock, and Sherlock arched her neck, looking to John for confirmation. "That was… flirting?" she presumed.

John started out nodding but morphed the motion into a confused shake of his head, staring at Lestrade in disbelief. His voice got a bit higher in pitch. "Hold up, are you actually _hitting_ on her?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Not my fault he turned into a girl, now is it?" he asked defensively. "And John, if you're not going to make a move then I figure I might as well."

"Who said John isn't going to make a move?" Sherlock asked, as if she were genuinely confused.

"Are you _serious_?" John exclaimed. "_I_ said it, Sherlock, I all but _swore_ it. _Remember_? That was the deal. We're to carry on same as always, me and you. No flowers, no chocolates, no bloody eyelash-batting. Right?"

Sherlock's eyes slipped to the side. "Hmm, yes," she murmured, pursing her lips as if she truly might have already deleted her record of that conversation.

Greg Lestrade put his hands into his pockets. "So," he said airily, looking at Sherlock. "You free for drinks tonight?"

John's face was broadcasting so much suffering at that point that even Sherlock noticed it, and decided to take pity on him. Acting on a sudden impulse, she came to John's rescue by wrapping an arm around Molly. "Sorry Lestrade," Sherlock announced. "I'm afraid I'm unavailable; turns out I'm going for drinks with my gal pal tonight."

John's eyebrows rose comically. "Oh, so you have a _gal pal_ now, do you?"

Molly saw her chance to help and jumped in. "Yes, you see, if's she's going to be a girl, she needs at least one close female friend, don't you think? That's why I, ah, that's why I invited her out tonight!"

While hardly convincing, Molly was showing more confidence than John had ever seen from her.

Lestrade knew he was being brushed off, but all he did was sigh. "Well, that's fine. You go off and enjoy yourselves. I just stopped by to see if Sherlock was really as pretty as John said." He gave a half-smile as John blushed. "Guess I'll head back to the office," Lestrade continued, turning towards the door. He looked back over his shoulder at Sherlock and said, "you _do_ have my number," and then he stepped out into the hall and was gone.

John frowned at the two girls. "…Are you really going out later?" he asked.

Sherlock rolled her eyes and was about to say no, when Molly piped up.

"Definitely! We totally should. It will be fun! And it will be so good to have another girl to hang out with; most of my mates don't really like spending time with me because my job creeps them out and puts a damper on things, but that won't be a problem with you, so it will be perfect!"

"Seems it's decided," Sherlock declared with a curling smile. "The three of us are going for drinks."

"The three of us?" echoed John, alarmed. "Erm, no, no, no. If it's a girls' night out, you best go on—I'll stay out of it."

Molly looked at John then, eyes bright and sincere. Her innate kindness made her unable to stand the idea of excluding someone. "No! Of course you'll come with us! You can be our chaperone of sorts, keep us out of trouble!"

John glanced at Sherlock in time to see her make the same _'awkward!'_ face as before. "Oh yes, John, _do_ keep us out of trouble," Sherlock murmured. Molly slapped her playfully on the arm.

"Oh, stop teasing him! You're so terrible!" Molly scolded her, and then looked back at John. "John, we mean it. You have to come."

John took a deep breath, unable to repress the ominous feeling he was getting. Somehow, he was certain the evening would end in some sort of disaster.

"Drinks it is, then," he said, resigning himself to his fate. "Nine o'clock? I do know a good pub."

* * *

A/N: sorry about this chap; next one is where it gets sexy... I just randomly wondered what BC's blond eyelashes might look like in mascara, and I'm sure it would be terrifying. tbc.


	6. Chapter 6: Mixed Signals

A/N: YES, the internet works over here after all! This is an extra-long chapter, to make up for the delay in posting...

* * *

Chapter 6: Mixed Signals

Molly came over a little before nine with a bag of clothes for Sherlock to try on; after rifling through them and declaring them all subpar, Sherlock concluded that the black slacks and jacket she'd been wearing all day were perfectly adequate and that her clothing was irrelevant to her ability to enjoy a drink in a pub.

Although equally irrelevant, her streamlined style _did_ make her a bit incongruous with John and Molly, who were both dressed casually, comfortably and conservatively in warm and neutral colors. In fact their outfits were so complimentary, they might have bought them out of the same catalogue.

Sherlock, on the other hand, looked like someone pretending to be a bitchy female lawyer from a television drama. It was a look that shouted, 'pay attention to how little I care about you!' and, John had to admit, it suited the female Sherlock just fine.

"Ugh," scoffed Sherlock, elbowing her way past a laughing group of university students to claim a seat at a booth. "_Must_ people always be so transparent?"

"Keep your chin up," Molly encouraged, sliding onto the seat beside her. "Surely there's one or two mysterious ones left in the sea."

"Possibly, I suppose," Sherlock moped, scanning the other patrons of the little pub, seeing their life stories leaping out at her left and right._ Three kids. New car. Unemployed. Irish Catholic. Feminist. Good dancer. Bad gambler. Diabetic. Cheating spouse—and another of those—and a third_. So obvious.

Sherlock rolled her eyes. "See the three women in the corner?" she asked, speaking sideways to Molly. Molly looked and nodded. "Two are single mothers, finally out for a drink with their old friend in the gray dress, who's just come back from France, _Vallée de la Loire_, if I'm not mistaken. The one on the left is a feminist and is eager to pick a fight with that man in the blue jacket who is definitely Irish Catholic, who has been flirting on-and-off with all three of them. The feminist will probably end up going home with him, despite her best intentions."

Molly flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Oh, this will be fun! Let's make it a sort of a game. John, did you hear all that?"

John had just arrived at the booth with a round of beers from the bar. "Sorry, what?" he asked distractedly, distributing the drinks.

Molly motioned vaguely at the three women in the corner. "Sherlock says one of them's just got back from France! Guess which one?"

John sat down across from Molly, scanned the three women, tried to think like Sherlock. "Ehm, middle one. Gray dress."

Molly laughed and clapped her hands. "That's right! How can you tell?"

"Gift bag under the table, two bottles of wine, one for each of her two friends there?" John guessed.

Molly looked, eyes wide—the fancy gift bag was in plain sight. "Oh my god, I didn't even notice that!" she cried out, delighted.

"Very good, John," Sherlock drawled, in a tone that clearly meant, _but not as good as me._ John seemed to get the message, because he frowned.

"Listen, Molly, Sherlock, let's leave the other people alone, okay? I don't want to sit here deducing whose mother's in hospital or who's shacking up with a cabinet minister or anything else. Let's just have some drinks and try to be…"

"Normal?" Sherlock supplied, and the three of them exchanged glances before Molly and Sherlock burst into giggles.

* * *

Gradually, John began to believe that everything was going to be okay. Sherlock was behaving herself, keeping her incessant observations _mostly_ unvoiced and _mostly_ conspiratorial when they had to be shared. And it was positively refreshing to see Molly interact with Sherlock without her paralyzing crush getting in the way. Molly and Sherlock, John couldn't help but notice, were actually a really well-balanced pair, now that all that painfully unrequited infatuation was gone.

Seeing the two of them share a laugh here and a comment there made John feel happy for them both—happy that Sherlock was capable of having another friend; a 'gal pal', and happy for Molly too, who had always seemed to be a bit lonely. But seeing their natural friendship also reminded John of how it had always been between Sherlock and himself, up until Sherlock had gone and gotten turned into a woman. And that made John, well, not exactly _jealous_, but, well, _something_. Better not think too much about it, John decided, and ordered another round.

"…proving that while the waitress died of natural causes, her _dog_ was killed by a platypus," Sherlock concluded the story, several drinks later.

"That poor dog!" Molly exclaimed. "But… how did an actual _platypus_ get loose in the middle of London? Was it escaped from a zoo or something?"

Sherlock shrugged, and John could tell from the exaggerated laziness of that motion that the alcohol was starting to take effect. "Next door neighbors. Teenaged son; spent holiday in Australia. Smuggled it back."

"Really? I imagine that's a pretty serious offense. He confessed to it?"

"Not yet," Sherlock admitted. "Hasn't been questioned. First… we've got to find the platypus."

"But it's been weeks," Molly pointed out. "It's probably dead in a ditch by now, the poor thing."

"I think you might be surprised by the animal's adaptability, Miss Hooper," Sherlock was saying, sounding inappropriately smug, as if she had personally invented the species and programmed its adaptability herself. "John and I will find it. Won't we?" she swung her eyes to John, and if John had any doubts about his flatmate's state of inebriation, they were quickly dispelled by the foggy smile on her face.

John's eyebrows went all the way up. "Right, sure," he agreed. "Look, Sherlock. Maybe we should order some food? How many drinks was that for you, three? Four already?

"Three," Sherlock confirmed. "But the effect they're having is…pronounced. Easier to get drunk as a woman, naturally. It's all chemistry in the end." Her face twisted into a dreadful expression, which might have been the result of her trying to do some sort of chemistry equation in her alcohol-addled head. John had interpreted Sherlock's weird faces for long enough to know that he was probably best off ignoring whatever was causing this one.

"Food sounds fabulous," Molly spoke up enthusiastically, smiling at John. "And I'll ease up on the bevvies too. Drinks do get expensive."

"Oh, you don't have to worry there," John told her. "We'll cover your drinks tonight, Molly."

Molly's eyes met John's, accepting and glad. "Well, you really don't have to, but thank you!" she said warmly.

"_We_," Sherlock said at the same time, voice full of suspicion. John looked at her, realizing something was off. "What do you mean, '_we'_? Third person plural, referring to yourself? Or 'we' as in Sherlock and John, _we_, will buy Molly's drinks tonight?"

John blinked several times. "…The latter?" he clarified, cautiously.

"So I've had too much to drink but _we_ will still buy drinks for Molly?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. "What are you on about?"

"I wasn't aware we shared a bank account John."

John was genuinely confused now. He licked his lips, wondering what on earth Sherlock was getting at. "Remember the Gloucester case?" John said, grasping onto the first money-related thing that popped into his mind. "They paid us pretty well; half to you and half to me… Sherlock we _are_ sort of in business together, hopefully you realize that. And as for drinks tonight, business has been good, so where's the harm in treating Molly?"

Sherlock abruptly stood up. "Where are you going?" John asked immediately, as Molly looked up at Sherlock in concern.

"To get another drink. One that '_we_' don't have to pay for," Sherlock snapped, and flounced off to the bar.

Molly and John traded shocked expressions, and then dissolved into laughter. "Well!" said Molly. "That was a bit… rude of her."

"If your women's intuition can shed any light on what that was all about, please clue me in," John begged.

"Women's intuition—you think that's a real thing?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"Hmm," Molly said, having a sudden thought that she decided to keep to herself. She looked over at Sherlock, who was already accepting a drink from a tall young man in a leather jacket who was probably ten years her junior. "Uh oh, look at that."

John looked, and groaned. "There she goes. Getting in trouble already."

"You'll keep her safe," Molly reassured him.

"Well, I'll try. God, I hope I don't have to punch anyone in the face tonight. I do rather like this pub."

Molly giggled, and then her expression turned a bit serious. "You're a good friend, you know. I mean it… I've watched you, with Sherlock. Ever since he met you."

"It's not 'he' anymore," John reminded her, raising his eyebrows at the last few sips of beer in his glass.

"You know what I mean," Molly said. "But you know, you're totally right to use '_we_' when you talk about things. Because you belong together."

"Yeah, '_we_'," John said with a sigh. "I really don't know what set her off about that… I didn't mean anything by it. I wasn't trying to imply, I don't know, _anything_."

Molly's eyes traveled back to Sherlock at the bar. "Looks like she's chased off the first one," Molly noted with a sigh, and then winced.

"What now?" John asked. "I'm afraid to look."

"She's drinking like a fish, all of a sudden," Molly reported. "They're ah, they're buying her shots, it looks like."

"_They?_" John turned and looked, then rested his elbows on the table and dropped his face into his hands. "Oh god," he moaned.

"Looks like pretty much an entire rugby team," Molly said sympathetically.

"Perfect, wonderful," John muttered into his palms.

"You really are," Molly told him.

John started at that, and dropped his hands from his face, staring up at Molly in shock. Molly was blushing, but also grinning, looking at him with sincere admiration.

"I mean, here you are, standing by just waiting for Sherlock to, to _need you_." Her cheeks turned even pinker at her own choice of words, and she tipped her head in Sherlock's direction. "She's treated you awfully, just now, storming off like that for no reason, and now she's over there getting half of London to buy her drinks to make you jealous, and any other man would be furious but you're just…" she ran out of words to explain. "Just a good friend," she finished lamely.

"You're going to have to do better than that if you really want to talk yourself out of it," John informed her.

Molly was confused. "Talk myself out of what?"

"Asking me out."

The rugby team erupted in roaring laughter, drawing John and Molly's attention. Apparently Sherlock had accepted a challenge to drink a shot off someone's crotch, and had ended up spilling it everywhere. John sighed. "…And that's our cue," he lamented. "Time to get Sherlock home."

* * *

"You were at the bar for barely five minutes," John complained, half-carrying and half-dragging Sherlock up the stairs. "How many shots did you _have_, anyway?"

"Eight, I think," Sherlock replied.

"It's a marvel you bothered to count, you were knocking them back so fast."

Molly held the door open so John could push Sherlock the rest of the way into the flat.

"Ugh, this is good enough, just leave me on the floor," Sherlock whined.

"On the couch at least," John huffed, and looked at Molly gratefully as she scurried to move things out of the way, clearing a path for them. "There!" John declared, settling Sherlock on the couch. "Well? Anything to say for yourself? Any _clue_ you care to provide about what this was all about?"

"Chemistry," Sherlock mumbled, draping an arm over her eyes. "I told you. Chemistry."

"The chemistry of alcohol poisoning? Wow," John said, sarcasm boiling over. "_Fascinating_."

"No, John, not _alcohol_," Sherlock whined, voice delirious. "You and Molly."

Molly put her hand over her mouth. "_Me?_" she squeaked, alarmed.

"You were going to ask him out," Sherlock accused.

"But how did you… no, that can't be right. I didn't even _think_ of that until after you tromped off," Molly protested.

"Exactly," Sherlock groaned. "I had to get myself _out of the way_."

There was a heartbeat of silence then. Molly and John looked at each other, and Molly's face softened. "It's… that actually makes sense," she realized. "I…I guess I never realized how perfect you were before, John, because Sherlock was always…in the way."

"Calm down, nobody's perfect," John protested.

"_I'm_ perfect," Sherlock mumbled.

"_Except_ for you," John conceded to Sherlock, irritated, adding an eye-roll for Molly's benefit. Molly giggled, and damn it all if that didn't make John feel incredibly fond of her.

"So you don't mind?" Molly asked John. "That I was hung up on Sherlock for so long, and hardly even noticed you?" Molly's face clouded. "Sorry. Oh, that sounds really bad, doesn't it?"

"No, no, it's fine," John replied. "I mean, let's face it, he was taller." John and Molly shared a grin, which was suddenly interrupted by Sherlock sitting up.

"Taller!" she gasped. "That reminds me. Did you observe? At the bar? While all the men were looking and flirting, only the ones that were _taller _than me actually bought me drinks!"

"No surprise there," John remarked. "That's sort of how it works."

"But John!" Sherlock looked at him, wide-eyed, nearly manic. "You've dated women taller than yourself."

"Yes, well. That's because I'm not exactly your average bloke, now am I?"

"Below," Sherlock pronounced. "Slightly below."

"What?" John asked, starting to wonder if he was supposed to be feeling offended.

Sherlock's eyes closed wearily, and she lay back down on the couch. "Average. In height," she mumbled. "What else do women look for?"

John leaned forward on one foot, about to say something, then chewed on his lip, leaned back on his other foot, and laughed. "Sherlock, I know you are drunk, and you have no idea what you are saying, and it is _totally_ pointless to continue this conversation, but for the record—"

John caught himself, suddenly unsure of what he was going to say. Sherlock was looking at him now, eyes oddly dim, listless, metallic instead of liquid. What could John possibly say in his own defense? That he was _pretty good_ with women, at least by his own reckoning? Did he really think he could impress Sherlock by boasting that he'd been around the block a time or two? Somehow, he didn't think Sherlock would think very highly of the antics that had earned him a somewhat scandalous reputation with his mates in the Army.

"—He _is _a doctor," Molly pointed out, coming to the rescue.

"A doctor," Sherlock repeated, monotone, and then her voice rose high, instantly mocking. "Oh, how _intellectual! _Is that why women are attracted to you? Because they believe you're well-educated, possibly well-off, moderately intelligent, capable of providing for them financially? Money, yes. So _pragmatic_, these women who go looking for _doctors_. Tell me, is that the first thing out of your mouth when you meet them, or is it the last resort when the drink's almost gone and they've got one eye on the taller, younger man behind you?"

John and Sherlock stared at each other. Finally, John took a breath to say something he knew he might regret, but Molly piped up instead, saving him again.

"Well," she ventured, stepping forward. "No. That's not why. Maybe a few women out there are like that, but… for most women, I think, the reason why they'd be attracted to John is mostly his self-confidence. And his charm and sense of humor, and how he puts people at ease, and there's this sense of, I don't know, strength of character. Like he really would do what's right, and most of all, that he'd be someone who would genuinely care for you."

John looked at his feet, then up at Molly. She blushed at the silent gratitude on his face.

"I see," Sherlock said, and yawned. "Women want someone to _care_ for them. Suddenly the subjugation of the female sex throughout most of human history seems so simple to explain. And now you've bored me right out of the desire to remain conscious, so, please run along."

"No, Molly, don't listen to her. You don't have to leave," John said.

"Of course you do, you both do," Sherlock muttered.

"You can't kick me out, I live here," John reminded her angrily.

"John…" Molly said, a bit shyly. "Do you think… would you want to come back to my place?"

_Oh. What? No. Me and Molly…? No._

John weighed that thought, half-surprised by the realization that he'd never considered it before. Not even while they were commiserating at the pub, not even while he was teasing her about asking him out-the thought of actually _going home_ with Molly hadn't crossed his mind. He turned to look at her, really look at her. "Molly… you serious? After five minutes of flirting?"

"Well it's not like I just met you; I've known you a whole year!" Molly said, trying to act casual.

"You've been pining over Sherlock for a whole year, is what you mean," John reminded her. "And aren't I too old for you? How old are you anyway, 24? 25?"

"I'm 31," Molly laughed. "And I'm quite sure about this, really. I like you. And you're _so_ much nicer than all the other guys in my life over the past few years."

"I'm not _all _nice, honestly," John confessed, a bit guilty.

Molly rolled her eyes. "Umm...all the guys who've ever wanted to go out with me have been really awful to me. And the guys _I've_ been attracted to always…_ridiculed_ me and… made me hate myself every time they spoke to me…" she stared painfully at Sherlock for a minute, before biting her lip and looking back at John. "So, compared to them…"

John shook his head. "Molly, that's heartbreaking, and I wish I could, but I can't. I've got to take care of Sherlock."

"Sherlock's fiiiiiiine," Sherlock commentated in a very drunk-sounding voice. "Just grab your toothbrush and get on with it; _Obviously_ you aren't really serious about rejecting her. Molly's got a very _tender heart_ John, she always thinks the best of people. So if you want to convince her that you're not interested, you've got to be extra cruel about it. Here, I'll teach you how. Molly, uhm… let me see. John doesn't want anything to do with you because he can practically _smell _how desperate you are for a relationship, how miserable you are being _so alone_, and he can foresee how clingy and suffocating and tedious you'd be as a girlfriend, oh, and also he isn't attracted to weak, shallow women who need the companionship of a man to validate their existence."

Molly's eyes filled with tears.

"_Jesus,_ Sherlock! What is _wrong_ with you?" John exclaimed in disgust, and then turned to Molly. She met his eyes, ashamed, trying not to cry, but suddenly they both realized what Sherlock had done—with Molly torn down, and actually _hurt_, there was no way John would be able to refuse her. Molly's eyes flew to Sherlock's in accusation.

"_You're welcome_," Sherlock smirked at her, rolling over on the couch and waving a hand dismissively. "Enjoy!"

"Oh _don't _think you manipulated this," John scolded, face turning red. "You're drunk."

"Let's just go," Molly said quietly. "Please?"

* * *

A/N: Ladies, seriously. I am having way too much fun with this story. The next chapter is already done and will be up in just a few days...


	7. Chapter 7: Women's Intuition

A/N: suddenly the possibility of John/Molly will not leave me alone… guys…think about it… it almost makes sense. But also don't worry; I already said you'd like this story if you ship John & Sherlock. Because, obviously. Yes.

* * *

Chapter 7: Women's Intuition

Molly collapsed against his side for the cab ride to her house. She fit there perfectly, comfortably, John's arm around her. She was feeling sad, John knew, and that made him sad too. It was Sherlock's fault, of course. But no, he wasn't going to think of Sherlock anymore tonight. He tried out a joke, something harmless enough, and to his relief Molly responded. Before long he had her laughing, and found he loved the sound.

The more John made her giggle and laugh, the more affectionate she became, and they were snogging like teenagers when they finally tumbled into Molly's little bedroom. Then there was the necessary introduction to Toby the cat, who seemed breezily indifferent to John's intrusion into his territory, and Molly excused herself to the bathroom, leaving John to take stock of his situation.

Despite her age and the gravity of her occupation, Molly's room was decorated like the cheerful dorm room of a much younger girl, with artsy paper flowers and photo collages displayed on boards of crisscrossed ribbons, pink and purple. The curtains were pink and flowery, and there was a pink lamp on the bedside table.

John felt horribly mismatched to the sweetness and innocence suggested by his surroundings. He felt out of place, like he was taking advantage. It had been a good long while since he had actually picked up a woman in a bar and gone home with her—and this wasn't just some woman, it was _Molly_, sweet, kind, harmless little Molly.

Before he could ask himself too harshly what in the hell he was doing there, Molly reappeared, wearing nothing but her bra and panties—and John found himself doing a triple-take, staring at her up and down. She had a lovely figure, girlish and slim and willowy, softly curved in all the right places. She had a _gorgeous_ body and she didn't even know it.

"Umm…" Molly fidgeted, smoothing her hair away from her forehead. "Are you… all right?"

"My god, Molly, yes," John said, remembering how to use words. "You're beautiful."

Molly rolled her eyes. "Oh, please, you don't have to—"

"I'm serious, Molly. Beautiful."

"Sherlock's the beautiful one," Molly muttered.

"_Sherlock,_ for all I know, is a reptile," John declared, which had the intended effect of making Molly laugh.

"That's a mean thing to say," she chided.

"Honestly, Molly, Sherlock turned from male to female. What sort of animals do that? Reptiles! Case solved."

Molly heard what he was saying and saw the wide-eyed, earnest face he was making and wasn't sure which was funnier, so she laughed at both. "Feels good to laugh," she managed to comment, coming out of a fit of giggles. Then, suddenly, she seemed to remember where she was and why Dr. John Watson was looking at her in her underwear. Her face turned her favorite color and she looked back at him in an almost _apologetic_ way, as if she were about to ask him for some horribly inconvenient favor. "Umm…so…do you want to…should we get in the bed?"

"Sounds good to me," John said, and began to undress, realizing that Molly might be too shy to initiate that for him.

"Oh, this is going to be fun!" Molly exclaimed. "I feel so happy—I must be a bit drunk after all!"

"But not _too_ drunk, I hope?" John asked as delicately as possible, considering that he was unbuckling his belt.

"Not at all! I'm just a bit squiffy. Just the right amount I think. But do you mind if I turn the light out?" Molly asked in a fluttery voice, and clicked off the lamp.

"Ah, good. That way you don't have to see how old and ugly I am," John teased, but inwardly he flinched. Molly was shy and self-conscious and had a tender heart, sure, but now it was evident that she was also, for lack of a better term, inexperienced. John felt like a dirty old man.

"Sorry—I know I'm a bit awkward at this!" Molly apologized in an excited giggle, lying down on her bed. "It has been a pretty long time since, I, ah, since I had a boyfriend. Oh-" She grimaced, and her excitement turned to panic. "_Not_ that I'm implying that _you're_ my boyfriend now, of course, you aren't. I mean, you don't have to be. That's not what I want. Unless you want that too. I mean—oh my god."

John shook his head and sank onto the bed next to her, leaning over to plant a reassuring kiss right on her worried little lips. Her whole body was tense, mortified that she'd said something wrong, so John found her hand, and held it. "Molly Hooper," he said, making sure she met his eyes. "You said a lot of nice things about me earlier tonight. Actually managed to convince me that you might like me for more than an easy shag. But what you need to know now is that _you_ are the sweetest, most helpful, patient, and sincere woman I have ever met, not to mention one of the most beautiful girls I've ever seen, and I think I have seen the _entire _internet by now, so trust me, I know what I'm saying."

She giggled at that, and relaxed enough to cuddle against him, tension evaporating everywhere that skin touched skin. "Thank you, John," Molly whispered, lips asking for—and receiving—another kiss.

"Anytime," John whispered back, and meant it. He wrapped his arm around her, reveling in the feeling of just being close to her, so perfectly cuddled together. It was intoxicating, this physical intimacy. It felt right—and for Molly too, apparently. Which reminded John of one more thing that needed to be said.

"And, ehm, Molly? About what… what was said earlier? For the record, I don't think you're _weak_ for feeling lonely. It's only natural to want to share your life with someone."

Molly sighed, and shifted around, until she was lying on top of him, her head on his chest. "And when you find that 'someone'…what's it like?" she whispered.

"I wouldn't know."

"Of course you know, you have..." Molly took a breath, as it suddenly occurred to her what an awkward subject _that_ might be. "Oh… sorry."

"No, no, it's fine. I know who you mean. But let's forget about her for now. I have _you_ tonight, and you have me, if you still want me."

She hugged him as if he were the dearest thing in the world. "I do want you," she breathed. "But just thinking about _her_…it's wrong for us to pretend she isn't important to you. And if I were Sherlock, I wouldn't want you to be with anyone else."

"Hah. If you were Sherlock, you wouldn't care."

She grew very still, her ear to his chest, her breathing light and carefully measured, and John was struck by the realization that she was listening to his heart.

"No… that's not quite true," she said with a soft smile.

"What makes you so sure?"

"Call it…women's intuition?"

John raised an eyebrow, and then laughed. "Guess I can't argue with that."

Molly hugged him once more, and then pushed herself away, sitting up. John found himself letting her slip out of his arms, instantly missing all that warmth and contact.

John stretched his arms over his head, laced his fingers behind his neck, and looked up at Molly. "So…?" he asked with a meaningful swing of his eyes, down and back up. Molly understood exactly what he meant and shook her head.

"It'd be wrong. I want to and I am so sorry, but we can't. It would just be too wrong." She hid her face in her hands for a moment, overcome, and when she looked at him again she actually asked, "…Are you very angry?"

And that was just too much for John to take. "_Furious_, Rraaarr!" he teased, and he got it just perfect because she immediately giggled. Satisfied that he'd buoyed her up, he stopped clowning. "Molly for heaven's sake, it's fine. I wouldn't turn you down if you wanted to, but this is your call. If you think we shouldn't, we won't."

Molly nodded gratefully. "Okay. I—thank you. But I am still sorry. This was reckless of me, and, just… all of a sudden, you know? I'm not like this, really. I guess, um, I suppose you can go, if you like."

For a minute they looked at each other, as if it might hurt to breathe.

"Would you mind if I stay?" John asked at last. "Just to sleep, I mean."

Molly swallowed, and gave him her most timid smile. "That'd be—yes. That would be nice. And I don't think Sherlock could hate me for just that much, just for letting you sleep here."

"Oh, Molly," John groaned. "You are so much better a friend than Sherlock deserves."

Molly settled down on her stomach, face turned towards John, but keeping a good foot of space between them. "From one good friend to another, then… good night?"

"Goodnight," John replied automatically, politely, and thought about falling asleep. This had been a strange day, not that he'd had many _normal_ ones since meeting Sherlock Holmes. Molly's advances had been unexpected but not unwelcome, truth be told. _Of course_ he would've slept with her rather than next to her, if she'd wanted it. That was as much of a given as the fact that he had backed off when she changed her mind. He was a little disappointed, sure—what would have been so _wrong_ about it, anyway? Nothing, as far as John could see. Two consenting adults and so on; it was _all_ fine. People always made such a big deal over sex. Well, except for Sherlock, who preferred to sneer at people and deride them for thinking sex was important at all.

It _was_ a bit important to John, honestly. But there were plenty of other things that mattered more.

A few minutes passed, and John watched the lights from cars in the street rise and fall through the curtains. Toby stalked into the room and leapt onto the bed, curling up at Molly's feet. There was white noise from somewhere, the thrum of a heat pump, maybe. It was all very comfortable, and John found he was pleasantly sleepy after all. But he couldn't stop glancing over at Molly, and when he did, he found her looking back at him.

The expression on her face, while not quite _sorrowful_, was vaguely forlorn. Like she was thinking something that she was never going to be able to say aloud. She didn't seem embarrassed when he caught her looking at him; just gazed back with dark, beseeching eyes, until finally John guessed what she wanted.

"C'mere," he muttered, rolling towards her. She smiled and shifted onto her side, welcoming John into the space against her back. "Better?" he asked, spooning with her now, draping his arm around her.

"_Mm_. 'sgood," Molly replied. She snuggled back against him, feeling him breathe. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she was almost asleep, when she thought of one more thing. "John… Promise me you'll do this for Sherlock sometime."

Although Molly couldn't see it, John made a face. It was such a strange request, he wasn't entirely sure what she was asking. "_This?_" He drew her a little closer to make sure that was what she meant. She nodded, and John had a mental glimpse of Sherlock scoffing and rolling her eyes. Cuddling was the last thing Sherlock would tolerate, so Molly's request didn't seem to make sense. "Do this…_for _Sherlock? Or _with_ her?" John asked.

"Or _to_ her, if you have to," Molly said, surprising him with the objectionable mental image evoked by that simple verb. "For, with, _to_…" Molly mused. "He, she, _we_… funny how those little tiny words can have such huge meanings."

John let the truth of that settle in his mind, and felt Molly drift off to sleep, and wondered for the hundredth time what Sherlock's motive might have been for setting him up with Molly in the first place. Everything he'd said to Molly had been true, she _was_ a wonderful person and she did break his heart a little, and maybe John could see something there, between them…

But not with Sherlock in the way.

Obviously.

_Sherlock, you difficult bastard,_ John thought wearily. _I'm going to spend the rest of my life with you._

Maybe it should have felt like an epiphany, but it didn't. And maybe it should have made him uncomfortable, but instead, it felt like the simplest resignation, just finally putting together in his brain something that his heart had known all along, probably since the moment they'd met. Male or female, it didn't matter—even falling in love was a non-issue. Their relationship didn't have to be anything more than it already was.

And then, comforted by the absolute certainty of his convictions on that subject, John closed his eyes and slept.

* * *

A/N: Thank you everyone for the many favs and follows, and of course thanks a million for the reviews! Just one favor... if you leave a review, please enable PMs so I can reply to your review and thank you for it in person! Oh, and if you review this chapter, you gotta tell me... John & Molly: yay or nay?

Next chapter we get back to the fact that Sherlock is actually a female. Cue ominous music...


	8. Chapter 8: Useless Sentiment

Chapter 8: Useless Sentiment

Morning arrived bright and pink in Molly's bedroom, where the situation became only moderately awkward as the now-sober Molly seemed thoroughly horrified and embarrassed that she'd brought John home with her at all.

Before she could get too flustered, though, John asked if he could take her out to breakfast, and she seemed so charmed by that notion that she actually stopped apologizing for a while.

After they'd both showered and dressed and were seated in a café down the street, however, there was a moment when Molly just _looked_ at him and blushed and John flinched in anticipation because he just knew what was coming—

"I am _really_," she began in earnest.

"_Molly_," John said, trying to stop her.

"Completely," Molly continued, emphasizing it with little hand motions.

"No, don't," John shook his head.

"Sorry," Molly finished, with a pleading look.

John took a deep breath, looked at her, and the whole thing was suddenly so ridiculous, he almost laughed. "Honestly, Molly. You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. No harm done."

Molly bit her lip. "Sherlock won't hate me?"

"If she does, she's an idiot."

"And… she won't hate _you?_" Molly asked, searching his eyes.

John grinned. "Probably no more than she did to begin with."

"You shouldn't joke about that."

"Who's joking? You heard her last night: '_oh Jawn yoor so short women could only ever be attracted to yoor nonexistent salary!'_…see? Pretty hateful if you ask me."

Molly keeled over in giggles. "The…the voice! Oh my god, you did her voice. And you're not that short."

"Liar," John smiled at her.

"Perfect height for cuddling," Molly amended, with the tiniest twinkle in her eyes.

John put his hands on the table and leaned forward, looking back and forth in mock suspicion. "_Shh!_ Don't go blabbing my secret superpower; I'll never keep the ladies off me!"

Molly laughed again, _really_ laughed, and John leaned back in his seat, pleased with himself, and, hold on, _yes_…genuinely fond of Molly. All those cynical, cautious women he'd dated… Molly was the complete opposite, still just a girl at heart. _Too young and too sweet_, John's mind warned him. _Too easy to hurt. And there's Sherlock_. Yes, well. Sherlock was Sherlock and would always be there, but this…

He pressed his lips together, quieted his mental protestations, and cleared his throat. "You know, Molly I have to ask you," he began in a semi-serious voice, but then adjusted his tone so that the question would sound humorous. "Are…we _on a date_ right now?"

Molly smiled, and looked happy and flattered, and John began to wonder—but then she shook her head. "No, of course not!" she said. "You and me are _strictly_ friends."

John rolled his eyes and did the girl-Sherlock voice again. "_Not you and me, Molly, you and I!_"

Molly made the most adorable sounds when she giggled like that. "Yes, exactly." She said once she was able to talk, and looked back and forth at his eyes, all those murky grays and blues. "You see…I might've been lucky enough to be the one in your arms last night…" she smiled at the memory; it was a good one once she forgot to be ashamed of it. "…But Sherlock's the one in your head and in your heart. I couldn't take you away from her, even if I tried."

* * *

John's thoughts swirled restlessly as he made his way back to Baker Street. Of course Molly was right; John and Sherlock were as _meant to be_ as any two people had ever been; the whole world assumed they were _together _when they were both males anyway; now that Sherlock was a girl and John was never going to get laid again as long as he was living with her, maybe he should give up now, or maybe he should just grab that irritatingly angelic face with its overly dramatic cheekbones and just _kiss _her; and most of all what on earth was Sherlock's reason for trying to set him up with Molly?

He was about to open the door to 221B when it finally occurred to him.

_No. She wouldn't have...would she? _

The very thought was so mind-blowing, John actually stopped in his tracks, knowing he couldn't go inside or up the stairs to the flat until he sorted out how to react to such a startling possibility.

Would he be angry, if it were true? No. He didn't _own_ Sherlock, she could do whatever she wanted. Would he be jealous? No, not really... okay maybe just a little. Surprised? Oh yes. Very surprised. Disappointed? No, not really. Just mostly surprised, and a little bit proud of himself if he really _had_ figured out Sherlock's motives after all.

All right. That was enough to go on. John steadied his nerves and went in.

Inside the flat, everything was exactly as John had left it the night before. He stood in the open door, just looking. The mess Sherlock left everywhere was all there, papers and sheet music and books and beakers and strange bits of science projects, each one a story, a case solved or unsolvable.

Sherlock herself was asleep on the couch, looking for all the world like she hadn't stirred at all in the twelve hours since John had left. It was still so strange to see a _woman's _body there, taking up much less space than the male Sherlock used to—dark-haired head still looking so much the same but shoulders slimmer, waist now drastically narrower, hips a bit rounder. And she was just so much _smaller_; compared to the male Sherlock from just a few days ago, _this_ Sherlock had to be several stone lighter.

John sighed and crossed the room, wondering, wanting to see the look on her face if he was right. When he was standing directly over her, gazing down, he just had to smile.

Madness. This whole thing. Sherlock a girl, a beautiful girl. Impossible.

And John was suddenly totally okay with it.

He reached out and brushed a coffee-brown lock away from her forehead, and then leaned down and kissed her in the space he'd cleared, right above her eyebrow.

" 'Morning," he said amicably, as she blinked her way into consciousness. Once he was sure she was awake, he paused, waiting for her to read his mind and answer his question before he had to ask it.

Instead she just looked up at him, eyes clear and cool. "Right," John said, and glanced at his feet before reestablishing eye contact. "So… how was _Greg?_"

* * *

For a minute he thought maybe she hadn't heard him. Or that maybe he'd got it all wrong and made it all up in his head—but then she sucked in a breath, and the sides of her eyes crinkled as her face broke into a delighted smile. "_Brilliant_," she whispered.

John was taken aback, and stared at her, mouth ajar. "Brilliant," he repeated.

Sherlock read his expression and her smile turned to a scowl. A second ago she'd looked like a kid on Christmas; now she looked like John was offending her with his very existence. She sat up, annoyance evident in the way she moved. "Oh _shut up_. I didn't mean _Lestrade_. I meant _you_; brilliant of _you_ to figure it out! How long did it take you? Did you realize it right away? I confess, I didn't think it would even cross your mind."

"Yeah, well. To be honest it almost didn't. I only thought of it just now, at the door."

"After turning it over in your mind all night?" Sherlock guessed.

"Yep."

Sherlock reverted to that _John's-done-something-clever_ smile of hers. "Nevertheless, an excellent deduction. I've underestimated your capacity."

John sighed and raised his eyes across the room, shaking his head. "Remember when we talked about how your compliments still sound like insults…?"

"Yes, well, you know what I mean."

"Right. So. Lestrade…?" John raised his eyebrows, to which Sherlock rolled her eyes.

"Didn't even come over; said he could tell I was drunk over the phone and that he was pretty sure you owned a gun, though why that detail seemed relevant to him I'll never know; clearly you aren't the 'jealous boyfriend' type or else you'd be expressing some form of anger over the fact that your deduction was correct."

Sherlock dropped her face into her hands. "And…" she huffed dramatically, "I've just realized that I have a headache."

"Now you know how I felt yesterday morning," John muttered. "Not surprising after all that alcohol."

"I only drank _three_ of the shots, actually. I managed to spill the others on the floor; I didn't want to be incapacitated."

"Three beers and three shots will still get a girl pretty drunk," John informed her, and moved towards the kitchen to get her a glass of water.

Sherlock accepted and drank the water, gratefully, and then curled back up on the couch. "Oh," she said after a moment. "By the way. Sorry about Molly."

John retrieved his laptop from the top of a pile of papers and sat down in one of the armchairs. "Are you?" he asked lightly. "Why's that?" He opened the laptop, waited for it to start up, and looked expectantly at Sherlock, who seemed to be hesitating. "Go on," John told her. "I want to hear it."

"I'm sorry because… it didn't work out."

"For me, or for you?" John asked, and when Sherlock seemed unable to answer, John sighed. "Look, I'm not angry. But I _don't _think you set me up with Molly just to get me out of the house."

"You don't?" Sherlock's eyes were wary.

"No. I think you set me up with Molly to prove that you don't care who I sleep with."

"Just because I didn't prove it doesn't mean it isn't true," Sherlock replied, a little too defensively.

John chuckled. "Okay."

He clicked around randomly at the internet for a while, checked his e-mail, letting Sherlock glare at him from the side until finally she built up so much mental steam that some kind of outburst was inevitable. "And I never intended to prove the reverse," she blurted out at last.

"Mm hm," John said, not sparing her a glance.

"I mean it. I didn't think it was necessary. I didn't think you'd ever guess what I was up to, but I also wasn't trying to keep it a secret. I already knew you wouldn't care. I didn't have to prove it."

"All right," John sighed, looking up from his keyboard. "Let's talk about it."

"Talk about what?"

"Why you called up Lestrade after I left."

"Simple. I had his number, as he was so very keen to remind me yesterday afternoon."

"That's not why."

Sherlock scrunched up her face in frustration. "Oh very well; it's because of something stupid I said to my brother. About what a unique opportunity this is for me to…experiment. Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson both warned me not to try anything with _you_; not in those words exactly but that was their point. '_Don't hurt John_'; '_careful or you'll scare him away!_', and you said pretty much the same things yourself, saying you'd move out if attraction became an issue, warning me not to flirt with you and so forth."

"Now hold on," John interrupted. "Since when do you take advice from Mycroft? _Or _Mrs. Hudson, for that matter? And, Sherlock, you could have brought a different girl or guy home every day of the week and 'experimented' to your heart's content when you were a man, yet you never did. What changed?"

"That's what I need to figure out!" Sherlock insisted. "At first I didn't think _anything_ had changed, aside from, obviously, my body. Everything that _mattered _seemed exactly the same at first but now… I feel different. Unstable, chemically."

John sighed. "Listen, I don't know how this happened to you. But you've probably got a whole new set of _hormones_ to deal with and it might take you a while to get used to them. You've only been female for, what, three days now? How about you slow down, just…be yourself for a while, and figure out what being a girl actually feels like?"

"I already know what it _feels_ like," Sherlock grumbled. "Unnecessary emotional responses; bursts of anger and sadness for no logical reason, inexplicable sexual urges. It's chaos."

"Oh my god," John said quietly.

"What."

"Nothing," John said, eyebrows high. "I'll just, ehm, I'll just pick up some chocolate for you at the store later. You might need it in a bit."

"I thought our original agreement included _no chocolates_ right after _no flowers_," Sherlock reminded him.

"Speaking of our original agreement, it was _your _idea to keep everything the same between us. And I am still totally on board with that, if that's what you want to do. But since you're having all these confusing _feelings _and whatever, how about this: you hold off on your 'experiment' for now, and figure out how to be Sherlock-as-a-woman for, say, a couple of weeks, and then we'll reevaluate our, eh, this…"

"Relationship," Sherlock provided, smiling.

"Yes. Exactly. Then, if you want to try being what everybody already thinks we are, fine. We'll do that. Whatever you want."

Sherlock narrowed her eyes. "I told you I felt… unstable. By the time a couple of weeks are up I might have turned back into a male."

"Or you might have turned into a horse or a houseplant, or the mothership might have finally come back to collect you. Honestly, you turning back into a male would be the best-case scenario, if there are going to be any more changes."

"And… if I never change back…if I stay like this, permanently, what then?"

"Then," John said, thinking only from a practical and straightforward perspective, "I suppose you'll have less chance of going _bald_ when you're older, though you will have to worry about menopause, which I understand can be difficult. And, ultimately, your life expectancy will go up by three or four years, which means, since I'm five years older than you already, you can expect to carry on about nine years after I shuffle off."

Sherlock stared at him, and suddenly found herself blinking at water in her eyes. "…That'd be a very long nine years," she managed.

John observed all of that in absolute astonishment. _Have I just… did I just make her cry? That wasn't—I didn't mean— _

"No, no," Sherlock answered his thoughts, wiping her eyes with her hand. "Don't apologize, it's not you, it's just one of those unnecessary emotional responses. I told you it's chaos, being female."

"I see," John said, voice flat, and glanced down at one more thing on his laptop before snapping it closed and standing up. "Okay."

"…Where you going?" Sherlock asked.

"Park. You, ehm, you left a list on the fridge of where I'm supposed to go look for that damn platypus, remember? Park's next and the weather's nice for it."

Sherlock smiled. "You go on, I'll meet you there in a bit."

She watched as John puttered around the flat for a minute, getting ready to go out, and as she watched him she thought as hard as she could about how she felt about him. Sentiment, really, that's all it was. Useless sentiment. Was it really any different from how she _used _to feel, when she was male? How could it be? And why did it matter?

She tried to overcome her emotions with logic, with reasoning, but when John looked back at her and met her eyes for a split second as he made his way out the door, she couldn't help but think her own words over again, this time infused with her feelings.

_You go on, I'll meet you there in a bit. It wouldn't take nine years._

* * *

A/N: aaaaand that's as close to angst as I get, thank you very much... sniffle... guess somebody's in love with John Watson after all... I mean besides me. Sniffle. so... anyone else out there getting a little too excited about this story? oh please let me know if you're liking it!


	9. Chapter 9: Not Too Provocative

A/N: sorry for the delay in posting, been kinda busy, and kinda addicted to tumblr, too. Sherlock's behavior at the start of this chap is straight out of ACD, when Watson describes Holmes crawling around like an animal in the mud...

* * *

Chapter 9: Not Too Provocative

Sherlock showed up at St. James Park an hour later, nearly unrecognizable in ill-fitting jeans and a baggy t-shirt. She'd pulled her hair back into a messy ponytail.

"…Are you wearing my jeans?" John asked, taken aback.

"Yes, I didn't have anything that would do for crawling around in the mud," Sherlock explained dismissively. "And these fit well enough."

"Who says it's all right for you to ruin my clothes?"

Sherlock rolled her eyes. "Please. These jeans are eleven years old and if the mud won't wash out I know at least three charity shops where you can get an exact replacement for under £10."

"Still doesn't mean you can use my clothes without asking," John said, miffed.

"Fine then. _May_ I?" Sherlock asked.

"May you what?"

"Wear your jeans."

John took a deep breath, setting his jaw. "Yes you may," he said at last.

"_Thank _you," Sherlock sassed, snapping open her little pocket magnifying lens. Then she dropped to all fours on the ground, clambering around like an animal, looking for God-knows-what.

After deflecting the concerned and disapproving glances of several passersby, John rolled his eyes. "Is this really necessary?" he whined, as Sherlock scurried, crablike, from one muddy spot to the next.

"You've seen me study the ground before," Sherlock reminded him, her nose barely an inch away from the dirt.

"Only when there were footprints or blood splatters or something to go off of."

Sherlock sighed, scraping up some mud into a plastic bag for further analysis. "I have to find its food supply," she explained. "Then I'll know where to set the traps."

John shook his head. People a good distance away were pointing at them now, probably wondering what sort of caretaker would allow his mentally handicapped charge to crawl around on the ground muddying herself in public. Their stares filled John with the futile wish that people would mind their own damn business, but also made him think that surely, _surely_ there was a way for Sherlock to solve this case that didn't involve dipping her nose into every mud-puddle in London.

Sherlock picked up a particularly suspect clump of dirt, sniffed it, and John realized there was a possibility that she might actually stick her tongue out and _taste_ it.

"Er, look, Sherlock," John started, trying to use his brain and not sound too desperate to get her to stand up and behave. "You said the neighbor's teenaged son brought the animal back from Australia, right? Have you looked on his phone or his facebook or anything? If he caught a wild platypus he must have taken a picture with it for bragging rights."

"You think I'd bother to create a false internet persona and lure a witless teenager into an online '_friendship_' in order to access his facebook photos, rather than do comparative analysis of insect larvae in various puddles of mud?"

"…Larvae," John deadpanned, both as question and answer, and cleared his throat, and pulled out his phone.

"Exactly. Levels of _precocenes_ and other plant hormones in the soil and water may affect the density of larval populations—who are you texting?"

John hit send. "Chris Melas," he replied. Sherlock pursed her lips and her eyes flickered; scanning the hard drive. "Deleted him already?" John asked. "Here's a hint: Ninjas."

"Soho. Shaftesbury Avenue," Sherlock recalled.

"Yes. And Chris lives not too far from the dead waitress with the poisoned dog. What's the name of the teenaged neighbor?"

"Irrelevant."

"Okay," John said non-confrontationally, typing something else on his phone. "I'll just ask if any of his mates have been to Australia."

He hit send again, and a moment later, John's phone dinged cheerily with an incoming text. John's eyebrows climbed. "Well, so much for larval populations," he said, and turned the phone so Sherlock could see.

_LOL, how'd you know?! _the text from Chris Melas exclaimed. _Connor just came back from there a few weeks ago! Here's a pic of him from his trip!_

And below the text was a picture of an inebriated teenage boy, triumphantly holding aloft one furry little duck-billed monotreme.

Sherlock brought the samples of mud back to the flat anyway.

* * *

Later that evening, John returned from the supermarket to find a slender woman curled up on the couch in Sherlock's bathrobe, her dark hair straggling down to her shoulders, wet from a shower. She was looking at Sherlock's laptop.

John took a sharp breath, surprised.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from her screen.

"Nothing," John said, moving the groceries to the kitchen. "You just looked like Irene for a minute there."

"Irene Adler," Sherlock clarified, as if there was any other Irene in the world.

"She _was_ the last woman we saw around here in a bathrobe, with wet hair like that."

"Made an impression then," Sherlock noted.

John nodded, not even embarrassed. "It's not a look I get to see every day."

"From here on, it might be." Sherlock shifted and stretched her legs out on the couch, and continued in a bored voiced, "Not too provocative for you, is it? You made some mention of not wanting to see me prancing around in a bedsheet. Bathrobe's okay though?"

"Yes, that's fine," John said, putting things in cupboards.

"How about just a towel?" Sherlock asked, looking at him sideways.

"Let's leave it at 'bathrobe' for now." John looked up at her, didn't even try to stop himself from running his eyes over those long, long legs of hers—and he broke into a grin at the sight of three or four little plasters stuck to the bony parts of her ankles.

Sherlock connected his expression with what he'd noticed, and scowled. "Yes, I know, you're surprised to see me conforming to societal conventions."

"No, not really," John said brightly. "Just hoping you didn't use my razor."

"I bought a new one," Sherlock grumbled.

"Good."

Sherlock canted her head, looked him up & down. Deducing away, probably. "You're pleased with yourself. For finding that picture."

"I am, yes."

"I still want to find the animal itself," Sherlock grumbled.

"Well, we don't always get what we want." John smiled at her, extracted his laptop from the pile of papers Sherlock had buried it in, and trotted upstairs to his room before Sherlock could spoil the moment.

Sherlock sat on the couch for a long while, thinking.

* * *

Of _course _it was three in the morning when Sherlock decided to play the violin that night. John slept through it, sometimes, but this time it woke him. He listened for a while from the darkness of his room, not recognizing the music, wondering if it was sad or just beautiful.

When it paused, waited, and began again, John sighed and got up.

Sherlock was playing in the dark, still wearing the bathrobe from earlier, hair wild from having air-dried without being brushed. She lowered the violin and looked over her shoulder as she heard John approaching.

"Weirdly enough, it sounds different," John commented, stopping at the doorway, leaning against the wall. He wasn't sure he wanted to trespass into the dark blue of the sitting room; it seemed too much of a sanctuary with Sherlock and her violin poised in the center of it.

"I know." Sherlock's tone was indecipherable. She tucked the violin back up to her cheek. "I was worried that I might not be able to play as well as I did before."

She drew the sweetest, holiest melody John had ever heard from the blasted instrument. "What is that?" he asked.

"Rachmaninoff. With a few creative liberties," Sherlock murmured, continuing to play.

John listened for a few more minutes, appreciating the sheer purity of all those moony cerulean and indigo notes, how they trembled and soared. "Well," he decided aloud as soon as he felt it wouldn't be too disrespectful. "It's making me sad."

Sherlock immediately lowered the instrument and rolled her shoulders forward and back.

"I didn't mean…you didn't have to stop," John told her.

"No, it's fine. It was hurting my arms a little, anyway," Sherlock said, and John could hear her smile in the dark. "I don't think anyone really associates playing the violin with upper body strength, but…I can feel the difference. Muscle memory is there, but _muscle_ itself is not."

"I think you might actually be better at it now," John encouraged. "And with a little practice—"

"—It won't hurt," Sherlock finished, and stood perfectly still, head turned so John could see her profile. There was just enough glow through the curtains for John to tell that her thoughts were far away. She'd probably forgotten he was standing there.

"Well, goodnight," John said, turning back to the stairs. "Get some sleep if you can, all right?"

"Mm," Sherlock acquiesced, but remained standing motionless until John was really gone, all the way up to his room.

* * *

When John came back down to the kitchen about five hours later, feeling well-rested despite Sherlock's little violin concerto, Sherlock herself was gone. Hadn't left a note, hadn't sent a text. But _had_ taken her stupid platypus traps.

John rolled his eyes as he concluded that she'd resumed her ludicrous little search, and decided that a Sherlock-free morning wouldn't be all that bad after all.

After lunch, he sent her a text, asking what she was doing. He got no reply, which wasn't horribly unusual. Sometimes Sherlock got very preoccupied with the details of a case and forgot that John needed to know things, like what to do when the timer went off on the yellowish, bubbling experiment in the kitchen sink, or what language the angry monks were shouting at him in when he found them encamped outside their front door. Sometimes John really did rely on Sherlock to keep him informed. He supposed it wasn't a crisis, this time, and Sherlock could do what she liked. But as the hours went by, John did find himself thinking about Sherlock more frequently, wondering where she was. He sent one more text at dinner time, asking if she'd eaten at all that day and if she'd like him to heat something up for her.

At ten PM, with still no word from Sherlock, John finally called her. No answer, and he had no idea what to say in a message, so he just hung up. He wasn't her _dad_, for goodness' sake. It wasn't like she had a curfew. If she wanted to stay out all night, that was her business.

Two hours later, John tried to go to bed. He stared at the ceiling and rationalized that this wasn't the first time Sherlock had disappeared. The male Sherlock had wandered off into the city now and then, for a day or two, and John had worried about him each time, sure. But this was different. Sherlock was a girl now. What if she'd gone round to visit her homeless network and—_No, it's no different, it's still Sherlock, she's still smarter than everyone and all she's doing is analyzing larvae. It's not like she's hunting a serial killer,_ one part of his brain tried to convince him. But the rest of him won out. It _was_ different. And if she was in trouble…

John called Mycroft and relayed the situation. "Call me if she hasn't returned in 43, no, 41 hours," Mycroft yawned into the phone, and hung up. John had rarely felt so stupid, or so furious, or so crippled with worry. He got dressed, went downstairs to find the list on the fridge of all the places Sherlock had identified as likely hideouts for a platypus on the lam.

At six o'clock the following morning, having neither slept a wink nor found any sign of Sherlock, John dragged himself back to the flat.

Sitting just inside the door was the dark metal cylinder of a mortar round or a 107mm rocket, undoubtedly rigged to blow when he'd opened the door. In a split-second he simultaneously wondered why he hadn't already been blown into a blackish smear on the street behind him, thanked God that the thing had obviously failed to detonate, and felt wildly _high_ on the white-hot rush of energy that flooded every cell of his being.

_You miss it_, Mycroft's voice echoed, in the back of his mind.

_Shut up_, John thought back angrily at the memory, at all the memories.

He breathed a few times, staring into the dim foyer, staring at the "rocket", and as his eyes adjusted he realized he was wrong. Of course he was wrong.

It was an oxygen tank. A _scuba _tank. Not a bomb.

John stared at it for another minute, letting his heart rate drop, and then went up the stairs.

There was a pair of fins and a scuba mask on the kitchen table. A wetsuit drip-drying in the bathroom. And Sherlock asleep in her bed, hair a tangled mess on the pillow.

John's hand tightened on the doorknob. He chewed the inside of his lip. Breathed, swallowed. Forced himself to let go of the doorknob, as it felt hot under his palm. He brought his hands to his face and rubbed his tired skin, his bleary eyes, his worried forehead. And he told himself that everything was okay.

"John?"

John forced a reply from his throat. "Yeah."

"Lost my phone," she said sleepily. "In the Thames."

John closed his eyes. "You went _scuba diving._ _In the Thames_."

Something in his voice was definitely off. Sherlock inhaled and rolled over, more awake now, blinking at John and looking entirely too comfortable down there in all her pillows and sheets. As she observed the state of her flatmate, she frowned. "What's wrong with you?" she asked, and had the nerve to sound affronted.

"Figure it out," John replied, honestly trying not to sound cold or distant, while trying even harder not to shout. "I'll be in the kitchen."

* * *

A/N: Next chapter is ON FIRE (um, not with actual fire though) and will be up in a few days! Meanwhile, since two people have asked, I'll just leave this explanation here... _I was going to explain this whole thing about how Sherlock's trying to find that silly platypus; they close their eyes and are blind under the water and hunt for food using electroreceptors in their bills, so Sherlock was hunting for the platypus the same way (with an electrical sensor thing) and of course it had to be at night, because I'm guessing people would be pretty concerned if they saw someone march into the river in scuba gear in the middle of the day, lol. Plus she had to spend most of the day, you know, learning how to scuba dive. And of course she had to go into the river; where would a poor little platypus go, if not to the river? Besides, I needed Sherlock to do something about as ridiculous as harpooning a pig, and the scuba thing just seemed to fit!_


	10. Chapter 10: the Arm-Wrestling Lesson

A/N: so, the rest of the Sherlock fandom has probably known this forever, since we all know that Sherlock is something of a boxer, but I just realized today for the first time that in boxing, a _right cross_—_right cross_—_jab to the body_ is a 2-2-1(b). giggle.

* * *

Chapter 10: the Arm-Wrestling Lesson

John was eating a slice of toast when Sherlock appeared in the kitchen a few minutes later, dressed, hair somewhat brushed back, eyes eagle-keen.

"Sit down," John said mildly, indicating the chair he'd only just cleared of papers and books.

"Figured you'd be yelling by now," Sherlock muttered carefully, taking a seat.

"Why's that?" John asked.

"Because you're angry, because you were worried about me."

"So you do understand that, good," John said, and could almost see the switches being thrown in Sherlock's brain, the warning lights starting to blink. "Go ahead, let me hear it," John invited. "Go on and tell me why I shouldn't have worried."

Sherlock hesitated, searched John's eyes. When all he did was chew his toast and look back at her expectantly, she took a breath and launched into one of the most in-depth tirades John had ever heard, listing a dozen logical reasons why John should have known that Sherlock was fine and not in trouble. Only when she started throwing around _statistics_ did John finally interrupt.

"Statistically, it's more dangerous for you to be wandering alone at night as a woman."

Sherlock stared at him as if she hadn't understood a word he'd said. Then suddenly it registered. "No," she scoffed at last. "No John, please don't be stupid. That is completely ridiculous, and disappointingly sexist."

"Statistically, more of the people who commit violent crimes are men," John continued, unfazed.

"True, but _statistically_, more of the _victims_ of violent crime are also men. And, returning to your first statement, of any sample population of women who wander alone at night, the percentage that become victims of crime is probably no higher than the percentage of men who wander alone at night and become victims of crime, and in both sample groups that percentage in unlikely to be statistically relevant at all. I would go so far as to postulate that there is no correlation whatsoever between wandering alone and becoming the victim of a crime."

John sighed, and then leaned forward, propping his elbow up on the table, his hand open in the air, waiting at a forty-five degree angle. He gave Sherlock a look.

Sherlock blinked rapidly. "What are you doing?"

"You know what I'm doing," John replied, and nodded towards his offered hand. "Let's go."

"That won't prove anything."

"You're the one who mentioned upper body strength the night before last," John reminded her. "And you remember how strong you used to be, as a man."

"Fairly strong," Sherlock said warily.

"Very strong," John corrected, and nodded at his hand again. "So let's go."

"I already know you'll beat me."

"But you don't know how easily."

They stared at each other, John's face completely blank. "Oh all right," Sherlock agreed at last, wriggling forward in her seat to get comfortable. She put her elbow on the table, opposite John's, and clasped his hand. She tensed against him, just a tiny bit, tightening the lean muscles in her arm, and checked John's face for a reaction, but there wasn't one. Just stormcloud eyes, and a perfectly solemn mouth.

"Say go," John instructed, and Sherlock did so, instantly pushing against John's hand with all her strength—and nothing happened. John's hand didn't budge a single millimeter from its vertical position in the air, although his grip on her hand did tighten a bit. Scrunching up her face, she looked at John in accusation; this was some trick, he was cheating, the physics and the physiology were so very simple; she would figure it out.

But as soon as she met his eyes he held her gaze, and pushed her hand over and down, and there was nothing she could do about it. The back of her hand impacted the table with a dull thud and stayed there until John let go.

"Again," Sherlock huffed, disbelief evident all over her features. John put his hand back up, gamely enough, and might have looked just a little bit amused. Sherlock shook out her arm, moved it into position on the table, and narrowed her eyes at John. "_Go_," she said, and John began to slowly and steadily press her hand down, winning—and no matter how hard she tried, in fits and bursts or in steady exertion, nothing she could do could reverse the direction her hand was moving, down to the table and defeat.

He didn't even seem to be breathing as he pinned the back of her hand to the table for the second time, whereas Sherlock was pink in the face, her breathing definitely increased by the effort. He was just that much stronger.

Sherlock pouted. "I knew you'd win."

"Want to try the other arm?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, thank you. I suppose you think this 'proves' something or other. Are you going to require me to report my location to you whenever I go out?"

"I'm not _requiring_ you to do anything," John protested. "I just wanted to give you some data, some reference point for your physical abilities. I know you're used to ignoring your body, but now, in some situations, I just want you to be aware-"

"—that, as a woman, I might be more easily overpowered in a physical altercation." Sherlock concluded.

"Yes," John said simply.

Sherlock's smile stretched up one side of her face. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," John replied, relieved. He waited until Sherlock got up, moving towards the fridge, and then added, "And by the way, if you're keeping the scuba tank, please don't leave it anyplace unexpected."

"I only left it there because—"

"Because it was heavy," John cut her off, giving her a _yeah-I-figured-that-out-on-my-own_ look that was only slightly too long-suffering to be smug. "You didn't want to haul it up the stairs."

Sherlock looked back at him in surprise. "Exactly. Good deduction." Then she hesitated, like she had more to say. "John. It occurs to me that you seem more…more perceptive, of late. You caught on very quickly in the taxi the other day, and you realized I wanted to use the solutions to cases as bargaining chips, and you even deduced that I'd contacted Lestrade after you went home with Molly."

"And I found the proof of that platypus. Which reminds me, we need to wrap that case up, give some closure to the poor girl's family."

John watched as that last remark practically bounced off Sherlock's head; she didn't care about that right now. "I hesitate to give you too much credit…" said Sherlock thoughtfully.

"Certainly can't have that," John muttered under his breath as she continued.

"…but I think your powers of observation have improved."

Somehow John was able to translate that into exactly the sort of sincere compliment it was meant to be. "I've got two theories about that, if you're interested," he told her, eyebrows high.

"By all means."

"_One _is that living with the world's only consulting detective for a year has taught me some things. And _two _is that maybe over the past few days, you've just been easier to observe."

Sherlock looked insulted. "What do you mean 'easier' to obs-"

John sighed. "I meant easier on the eyes."

Sherlock blinked. Blinked again.

"Prettier," John rephrased, voice flat.

And then he watched in amazement as the tiniest bit of color glowed on Sherlock's cheeks. "And that's unlikely to be _sarcasm_ because Lestrade mentioned you'd already expressed that opinion to him in confidence. Therefore, you are flirting," she identified, in a not-exactly-disapproving tone. John opened his mouth to argue but Sherlock waved a hand at him. "No, no, don't deny it, you just can't help yourself." A cryptic grin pinched her face. "_Good_."

* * *

A couple of days passed uneventfully. Sherlock got a new phone, played her violin every night, and forbade John from saying anything to anyone about the platypus case until she finished her research on the local availability of platypus food sources.

John figured the news of, _'sorry, your daughter's heart just stopped in her sleep, there was no foul play, it was only a coincidence that her dog was poisoned to death that same night'_ would probably be just as hard to hear today as it would be in a week, so he let it alone.

Then there was the day John came home to the sounds of combative _thumps_ and _whumps_ from up in their flat, and raced up the stairs to find Sherlock, shirtless and wearing a sports bra, throwing punches at a huge punching bag hanging from the ceiling.

"What are you _doing_?" John exclaimed, heart pounding from his sprint up the stairs.

Sherlock turned to him, surprised. The white tape wrapped around her hands was tinged pink at her knuckles. "Thought that'd be obvious," she huffed.

John looked up at the ceiling, which now sported a neatly-cut hole where Sherlock had accessed the bones of the building in order to suspend the bag.

"Did you hang that up all by yourself?" John demanded. "How'd you do it?"

"I _am_ a genius," Sherlock stated, rolling her eyes.

"But not a carpenter," John retorted, which earned him one of Sherlock's fond little smiles.

"Rest assured the beam will hold the weight. It's quite secure." She gestured to the pile of tools and hardware she'd used in her little project, now abandoned on the table. There was a rotary hammer drill there, though John was a bit suspicious as to _why_, and his face contorted for a moment at the thought of _Sherlock_ wielding power tools.

The image of _male _Sherlock doing so was comically absurd. The image of _female_ Sherlock on the other hand, standing on a ladder and drilling into the ceiling as she must have done, was… _ridiculous_, thought one part of John's brain, while another part thought _hot_.

_Damn it. _

"Upper—body—strength, remember?" Sherlock was saying, hitting the bag a few times for emphasis. "How I currently—_unf_—lack it? Training like this will help make up the difference. Next time we arm wrestle—_hmf_—you won't beat me so easily."

John was left speechless. There was just too much to look at. Her shoulder blades, showcased nicely by the sports bra. How quickly she moved, swinging her hips into each punch with a crisp pivot, returning to a good relaxed stance, and the little bit of sweat catching the light at that curve of her lower back and making her hair stick to her neck and the side of her face—_damn it! _

"And I _do_ know what I'm doing," Sherlock added, breathing hard, hitting the bag with fast, precise strikes. "I've trained before."

John's eyebrows climbed. "Yeah, I can see that," he said, and then just continued standing there staring at her.

Sherlock glanced over at him, not letting him distract her from her workout. "Care to be my sparring partner?" she asked after another half a dozen solid hits. "You've often hinted at a latent wish to punch me in the face. Here's your chance."

"No, no thanks," said John.

"Is it because you don't want to hit a girl?"

"ehm, not exactly."

"It's decent exercise, and can be very relaxing," Sherlock tried to persuade him, running through another string of rapid punches, clearly proficient at the sport. John cleared his throat.

"Boxing's not my thing, too much, ehm, aggression. Not good for me. The opposite of relaxing."

"Turns you on," Sherlock noted, and from her tone John knew there was no point denying it.

So he sighed instead. "Maybe, yeah."

Sherlock smiled, focused completely on the bag in front of her, and went through a couple of lightning-quick combinations, showing off. She drew energy up from her feet to her hips to her shoulders to her fist and _thumped_ it into the bag. Her punches were all tight, repetitive motions, and seemingly with a decent amount of force behind them, too._ Thump-thump thud_. _Thump-thud!_

"…I…will be upstairs," John said, voice slightly higher than usual.

"Hmf." Sherlock smirked, not looking at him. Her body remained concentrated on her workout, finding satisfaction in the movements: mechanical, urgent, and totally controlled. But her mind followed John upstairs, thinking about him, wondering what it was like to be so easily _'turned on.'_

She'd been female for an entire week now. New body, new hormones, new _chemistry_—she still wasn't sure she understood herself. John was attracted to her and that was all right; it turned out she didn't mind at all. But was _she_ attracted to _him?_

She felt _something_, definitely, and she already knew she was going to take John up on his all-too-tempting offer: _'if you want to try being what everybody already thinks we are, fine. We'll do that.'_ That had sounded good to Sherlock, but _why_?

Her knuckles stung as she hit the bag with a particularly vicious right cross, and she paused to examine her hands. Just the usual scraped-off skin, a little watery blood diffused in the tape, perfectly normal for what she'd been doing. But perhaps it was enough for today. Her hands would be sore tomorrow, and the next time she did this she'd have to tape up her hands much better. John could—_oh_.

Her eyes went wide as the thought poured through her: John could help her wrap her hands. It should have been a _practical_ thought, mundane, trivial, but she knew it wasn't. It was a _romantic_ thought, possibly the first genuine one she'd had. So that's what it felt like, being _attracted_ to someone? It was so absurd it almost made her laugh. _This _is what turned Sherlock on? The thought of John just—she stared at her hands—just touching her hands with his? If it was so simple, how could not have realized it until now?

Sherlock took a breath and looked out in the direction John had gone, seriously wanting to rush up the stairs right then and tell him, show him, do _something_ to communicate how she felt. But then she shook her head and came back to her senses. She was _unstable,_ she was…emotional. Whatever burst of feeling that had been, it was already fading, reason reasserting itself.

She'd leave John alone, for now.

* * *

A/N: omg you guys... just wait. I know I've been saying that forever now, but, seriously... you'll see. tbc. (and thanks so much for all the follows and reviews! I love you guys, you make me so happy!)


	11. Chapter 11: Pharmaceutical Solutions

A/N: well, here it is, finally, because SO many people asked about this...

* * *

Chapter 11: Pharmaceutical Solutions

Three days later, John came downstairs in the morning and found Sherlock wrapped in a blanket on the couch, clicking listlessly at her laptop and looking absolutely miserable.

"…You okay?" he asked cautiously.

"I've decided to become religious," Sherlock muttered.

"Religious?" John echoed, trying to keep all hints of bemusement out of his voice. "And why is that?"

"Because I believe I'm experiencing the wrath of an angry God, punishing women for their original sin or however the dogma goes. It's the only explanation."

"Hm." John sighed, shifted his weight, and couldn't figure out what to do with his hands. "So… bad cramps, then?"

Sherlock leaned her head back and looked at the ceiling. "At first I thought it must be some sort of viral hemorrhagic fever, maybe my body rejecting its new organs and _liquefying_ them—"

"Don't need the details, thanks," John interrupted her.

Sherlock stared at him in sullen anger for a minute, until her expression was displaced by a fresh wince of pain. "…then," she continued in her gloomiest voice, "I did some research on the internet and realized that what I'm experiencing is all…_normal._"

The disgust in her voice was just a little too theatrical, making John scrunch up his face in disbelief. "_Research_, Sherlock? But you must have known about it before. It can't have been a total surprise."

"Yes I knew about it," Sherlock huffed. "But knowing about it and feeling it happen to you are two different things. Do you 'know about' people being eaten by sharks? Of course you do. But I bet it would still be a 'total surprise' when the shark is eating _you_."

"All right, you're right." John made the universal palms-down 'calm down' motion in the air. "I have no idea what you're going through. Sorry."

"It just doesn't make any sense," Sherlock hissed. "How can this much pain be 'normal'? From an evolutionary standpoint it makes no sense to have half your population crippled by useless pain and _mess _on a monthly basis. Females in this condition would have been of little use amongst the earliest hominids. I can't believe that natural selection failed to eliminate this…this…counterproductive _process_ eons ago. And I'm sure no other mammals experience this torture, so why are human women so afflicted? Must be the wrath of God. Simple."

"Ehhm, actually, I think some of the great apes also have…" John began, until a seething look from Sherlock shut him up.

"But the _pain_, John!" She snapped her laptop closed and cast it aside on the couch. "Are you telling me that chimps and gorillas are out in the jungle right now _suffering _like this just because they were born female? Why should nature punish females this way? Why should life as a female be so much more difficult and awful than life as a male?"

John bit his lip and made a face, willing himself not to laugh. He did feel sorry for her, sort of. "I don't know," he answered, shaking his head. "Maybe it won't be so bad, once you get used to it?"

After all, John reasoned, hundreds of millions of women got up every day in the same state of misery that Sherlock was in, and they got dressed and went to work and paid their bills and functioned the same as men. But that logic aside, the look on Sherlock's face made John realize instantly that it had been the wrong thing to say.

"Oh," she said with a dark chuckle. "Maybe the rest of the sheep are content to 'get used to it'. Not me. I've never appreciated pain; far too distracting. This time I was unprepared, but there won't be a next time, not of this."

She sounded so sure of herself, so smug. John's face flickered with worry. "And… _how_ do you intend to get out of it?"

She shrugged. "I'm sure there are several pharmaceutical solutions. Haven't really looked into it yet, but it should be easy enough. Hormones are just chemicals, after all."

"Sherlock, no. I'm not gonna let you sit around here conducting chemical warfare on yourself. Too dangerous, too many side effects."

Her eyes narrowed. "You saying you don't support a woman's right to progesterone injections?"

"I'm saying _any _kind of injections or mucking about with your hormones should be a last resort for a serious problem, not a way to avoid the inconvenience of a natural cycle."

"Hmpf," Sherlock snorted, looking away. "Then I'll just do it the easy way."

"Which is?" John asked, frowning.

"Starvation," Sherlock announced brightly, as if it were the cleverest idea in the world.

John's face clouded with anger. "Don't even joke about that."

She opened her mouth to make a smart-arsed remark but John cut her off. "I'm serious Sherlock, don't. It's bad enough you don't eat when you're working on cases. Not eating for other reasons, especially _that _reason, is so unhealthy it makes me angry to even think about it. I am your friend, and I am _not _gonna let you starve yourself. In fact, I'm going to make us some breakfast right now, and you're going to eat it."

Not waiting for a reply, he stormed off into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock sulking on the couch. After a few minutes, hearing John rummage about for a pan for sausage and eggs and a pot for beans, Sherlock rolled her eyes and dragged herself into the kitchen after him, crumpling dramatically into a chair. She hunched over until her forehead rested on the table, and stayed there, not speaking.

Once breakfast was sizzling on the stove, John snuck a concerned look back at his flatmate. "By the way," he asked. "Do you, ehm, have everything you need?"

"Apart from a large quantity of illegal opiates, yes," Sherlock muttered in a bored voice, not lifting her head. "Molly thought of it and brought me an assortment of supplies."

"Including those fifteen different bottles of shampoo and stuff in the shower?" John asked. "I wondered where those came from. Figured it was one of those female mysteries, best left unquestioned."

"Hm, yes," Sherlock mused. She turned her face sideways, away from John, so she could speak more clearly. "Molly put those there and bored me with her subjective evaluations of the effectiveness of 'citrus splash' and 'lavender bliss' and so forth; said I'm supposed to try them out. But then she showed me what else she'd bought for me, which led to a horrific session of 'girl talk', and my reluctantly agreeing to keep everything on hand just to be prepared for the worst, which then manifested itself at approximately midnight last night."

"You were up all night?" John asked, feeling a pang of sympathy for her. "Curled up on the couch thinking you had some organ-devouring hemorrhagic fever? And you didn't bother to wake me up and tell me?"

"I didn't know whether it was contagious," Sherlock retorted, as if that shouldn't have needed explaining. "No sense in _both _of us dying from a new strain of Ebola. And by the time I figured out what it was, I also figured out that _you_, being a man and having no conception of my affliction's severity, would most likely tell me to keep a stiff upper lip and march on."

That sounded a bit harsh to John, until he imagined being dragged out of bed at two in the morning to be informed that Sherlock was on her period—and then he had to admit it was probably for the best that Sherlock had left him asleep.

"Anyway," Sherlock continued, sounding bored. "I've just realized that Molly bringing all that stuff over here is surely what inspired Mycroft to try and interfere with my life again. Would probably be kind of us to inform Molly that she's under surveillance."

John blinked, puzzled. "Mycroft? What's he done now?"

Still not raising her head, Sherlock groped around on the table until she found a particular torn-open envelope, and held it up in the air without looking at it, waving it to indicate that John should take it from her.

John left off stirring the beans and took the envelope, pulling out the paper within. His eyebrows climbed as he identified what it was. "Doctor's appointment," he summarized.

Sherlock heaved a sigh, sounding supremely annoyed. "To ensure I am 'in good working order', as my brother so tactfully implored. I texted him back, told him I wasn't interested in being enrolled in any breeding programs, thanks very much."

John choked on a laugh and then cleared his throat. "Breeding program, right. A whole army of little Sherlocks, that's just what the country needs." He set the envelope down, going back to turn the sausages. "…Might not be a bad idea though, to keep the appointment."

Sherlock raised her head just enough to cut into his back with her eyes. "What for? If I need a doctor I've already got one."

"Hah. Wrong kind of doctor, sorry."

"You must know the basics at least. They _do_ have women in the army."

John smiled. "Yeah, and if they have a collapsed lung or a limb blown off, call me up." He shoveled the eggs and sausages out of the pan and onto two plates, followed by generous helpings of beans. Then he turned the stove off, and brought the plates to the table.

"You could at least help me get some kind of prescription for this agonizing pain," Sherlock complained into the table, having put her face back down on it.

John shook his head, setting knives and forks next to the plates. Then, before he sat down, he just stood and looked at Sherlock for a minute, hunched in on herself and slumped over in misery. He felt some genuine sympathy for her, but at the same time, her dramatic moping kind of made him want to laugh. "You'll be fine," he reassured her. And then, on a whim, John reached out to the back of her head, and gave that wild mop of hair an affectionate ruffle.

Which had the completely unintended effect of making Sherlock's shoulders clench upwards, and then _melt_ back down. She took a sharp breath, which had just enough of that unmistakable _hitch_ in it to make John's heart drop into his shoes and then bounce back up to get stuck in his throat. He froze.

"Do that again," Sherlock said, voice utterly calm.

The kitchen seemed very quiet. John swallowed, and reached down, and ruffled her hair once more, his fingers putting just the briefest pressure on the base of her skull before he lifted them away.

"Now do that for hours," Sherlock commanded.

John laughed. "I should've known you'd like that. You're always scratching the back of your head when you're stressed. Now how about you sit up and eat."

Sherlock sat up immediately, and John took the seat across from her, and to John's satisfaction Sherlock began to eat without a single word of protest. There didn't seem to be anything to talk about, which was fine. Sherlock kept idly glancing at John with a sort of an abstract, appreciative expression on her face, as if she were studying a painted portrait of him instead of the conscious, breathing body of the man himself.

"I thought I wasn't hungry," she blurted out, after suddenly finding herself with an empty plate, every bite eaten. "But I was…wrong." She actually looked mildly embarrassed.

John met her eyes, glad that she seemed to have returned to his plane of existence. "Normally I'd tease you mercilessly for that," he pointed out. "But considering your current 'affliction' I think I'll let it go, just this once."

"We should sleep together," Sherlock said next, completely matter-of-fact.

John looked like he'd been hit by a truck.

Sherlock scanned his expression and then looked insulted. "Not right this minute, obviously."

John sat back in his chair, mouth half-open in surprise, and looked around the kitchen, left and right. He seemed to be having some kind of argument with himself, which made Sherlock squint at him, wishing she really could hear his thoughts. Finally, he took a breath, and blew it out.

"Yeah, obviously," was all he said, echoing her. Sherlock bit her lip and frowned at him so intently, she looked ridiculous.

They stared at each other, until John couldn't help it—his face crinkled into a wide smile, which gave way to a giggle, and then they were both laughing, because even Sherlock recognized that their situation was more than a bit absurd.

The incoming-text chirp from John's phone was the only thing that gave them a reason to try and regain their composures. John picked up his phone, looked at it, still suppressing his giggles, and read the message.

"Oh my god," he said abruptly, all laughter instantly gone.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"It's my sister," John said, suddenly going pale.

"What happened, is something wrong?"

"She wants to visit us," John explained, swallowing.

Sherlock relaxed a little, actually gave a half-shrug. "So you've said."

"No—this says she wants to visit us _tomorrow_."

"Ugh," Sherlock groaned, rolling her eyes. "I doubt I'll be in the mood for entertaining company tomorrow."

"Knowing Harry, she'll be the one entertaining _us_," John said. "I keep forgetting you haven't met her."

"Can't we propose a later date?"

"No, she's got a flight out of Heathrow tomorrow night and wants to stop in for a visit on her way to the airport."

Sherlock sighed. "So she'll just be here for an hour or two? Might be tolerable. And it'll be an excellent opportunity for us to rehearse our story."

John grimaced. "Our story? What story is that? Wait—you mean _Mycroft's_ story, how we're supposed to tell people you've been female all along?"

"If we can convince your sister, we should be able to convince the rest of the world."

"Not gonna work," John predicted, shaking his head. "Harry may not have met you yet, but she does read my blog. She knows you're supposed to be a man."

"Thousands of people have read your blog," Sherlock reminded him. "And now it's up to us to make them all believe that the male Sherlock you've described was really a woman from the start, cross-dressing."

John just stared at her, mortified.

She rolled her eyes. "What's wrong? Don't tell me you've some moral compunction about telling a lie to your sister."

"Oh, I'll tell her a lie," John said. "But I can't guarantee that she'll believe it."

Sherlock smiled. "Don't worry," she said in a way that made it impossible for him _not to_. "I'll make sure everything is perfectly convincing."

John decided not to dwell on whatever that meant, and texted his sister back, telling her it would be great to see her and that she was free to stop by anytime.

_Omg I can't wait to meet Sherlock!_ Harry texted back within seconds. _See you tomorrow!_

* * *

A/N: No, Mycroft is not trying to get Sherlock into a 'breeding program', that was just a joke, lol. Mycroft is just worried about Sherlock as usual. And as for Harry Watson, is it creepy that I really, really want to see her played by Amanda A? I hope not. I think it would be awesomely hilarious to see that happen on screen. :)_  
_

Anyway thanks everyone for reading, I hope you're enjoying it! TBC!


	12. Chapter 12: When Harry Met Sherly

_A/N: Hi! Sorry it's been a while; real life's busy. For you youngsters out there, the title of this chapter refers to an ancient movie that posited the theory that men and women can never be friends, because sexual attraction gets in the way. Hmmmmm._

* * *

Chapter 12: When Harry Met Sherly

John greeted his sister outside, giving her a quick hug and a peck on the cheek before helping unload her suitcase from the cab. A minute later they were trotting upstairs, Harry already raving about the excellent location and convenience of Baker Street.

"So where's this madman of yours?" Harry asked at the top of the stairs, a delighted grin on her face.

"Er, Harry, there's something I need to tell you…" John stopped, and the tone of his voice stopped his sister. She tilted her head towards him, curious.

"What is it? He's not on the wrong side of the law again, is he? Or is he in the middle of some big case? There hasn't been anything on your blog in a while."

John tried his best to maintain eye contact with her. "It's just that, it's not actually '_he_'. Sherlock's—"

"A woman," Sherlock herself announced, opening the battered blue door and sweeping through it. John gave an epic eye-roll at her needlessly dramatic entrance, as Sherlock clasped the thoroughly stunned Harry Watson's hand and shook it. "I'm Sherlock, so lovely to finally meet you. I adore your boots." They were leather, mahogany brown, almost knee-high, and had a two-inch heel which put her at an even height with her brother. Harry glanced down at her boots as if she'd forgotten she was wearing them. "Do come in," Sherlock purred. Flashing a smile at John, Sherlock practically dragged Harry into the flat.

For a split second John looked like he was considering bolting back down the stairs and high-tailing it to the pub. But then, in resignation, he followed the two women into the sitting room.

"We are so glad you could pay us a visit," Sherlock was saying, holding Harry by the elbows, scanning her up and down at lightning-speed. Blonde hair up in a pony-tail, very no-fuss, make-up efficient and subtle but effective at bringing out her hazel eyes, her jacket-and-skirt outfit stylish and perfectly appropriate for a successful woman in her mid-thirties, except for the slightly-too-fashionable boots which were marginally inconvenient for airline travel and which she was only wearing to unconsciously impress her brother. Her alcoholism, evident everywhere, was not ruining her life despite John's fears. "I'm sure my gender is a complete surprise; John's been so good about keeping my secret all this time but he finally convinced me it would be better for our family to know the truth."

Harry was still standing there slack-jawed, staring, looking almost comically alike to John in the way she expressed confusion. John meanwhile had turned ash-white at the careless way Sherlock had said 'our family'. His pallor drew Sherlock's gaze like a magnet. "John," she said imperiously. "Would you mind putting the kettle on?"

"For tea. Oh, sure," John said absently, and shuffled into the kitchen. Harry's head swung to watch him go, her eyes wide in shock. She then looked back at Sherlock, and there was a horrible clock-tick pause of a second.

And then Harry Watson's face exploded with delight like a fireworks show, and she made a high-pitched whining noise like "_Eeeeeeeeee!_" and before Sherlock had time to look alarmed, Harry was smothering her in a hug while practically jumping up and down. "Oh my God. _Oh my God!_" she exclaimed, when her high-pitched squeal ran out of steam. She took a breath, pushed Sherlock back out to arms' length to look at her face again, and then pulled her back into another embrace. "Oh my God, John, I love her!" Harry said over Sherlock's shoulder, before releasing her. "I absolutely _love her._ I can't believe you didn't tell me!"

"He was helping me with cases," Sherlock explained, straightening out her shirt from where Harry had rumpled it with her hugs. "I usually pose as a man to conduct my investigations and—"

"Yes that's fine," Harry said in a way clearly meant she didn't care. She looked over into the kitchen."John, all this time, you mean to tell me, your mysterious flatmate, the consulting detective, has been a _woman_ all along?"

John's eyes flickered. "Yes?" he deadpanned, in a way that _almost_ sounded like there wasn't a question mark behind it.

Harry laughed with joy, and looked like she might start bouncing up and down again, and shook her head before reaching out and cupping Sherlock's face in her hands.

Sherlock blinked at her but didn't try to escape. "_You_ are perfect," Harry breathed, smiling up at Sherlock in intense admiration. And as if she just couldn't help herself, Harry then darted forward and gave Sherlock a kiss. It was basically the same kiss that John had given Harry a moment earlier, but _still._

"Oi!" John complained from the kitchen, turning his voice into the warning of an annoyed older brother. "_Harriett_…."

Harry laughed again and let Sherlock go. "You have to excuse him for being just a touch paranoid," she explained to Sherlock. "He's never forgiven me for all the girlfriends I stole from him. How many was it, John?"

"Several," John replied, making it clear he didn't wish to discuss it.

"Only five or six, total," Harry half-whispered.

"Come on, that was fifteen, no, more like _twenty_ years ago," John complained. Do we have to bring it up now?"

Harry rolled her eyes. "I'm just so excited at finding out your scandalous secret! You sly dog, I've been worried about you! Practically the whole world thinks you've gone gay, and in the newspapers it's 'bachelor' John Watson this and 'colleague' John Watson that, and _all the while_ you've been shacked up with the love of your life laughing at the rest of us! Even me, your own sister, keeping me in the dark and it's been over a year now!" She shook her head, and then thought of something. "But hold on a minute, what about that girl, Sarah? The one who went along with you to New Zealand? What was that about? Aren't you and Sherlock, you know, _exclusive?_"

"Part of a case," Sherlock supplied, voice utterly smooth. "I'm afraid I have imposed on your brother's personal life, rather a lot."

"Sarah and me are still friends," John added, since it was true. Tea was ready; he carried it into the sitting room, and the three of them sat down to chat like adults. Harry almost instinctively settled into John's usual seat across from Sherlock, leaving her very mildly miffed brother to pull a third chair over from the table.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at the interesting gender disparity of the person now occupying John's usual place, noting and cataloging all eight of the visible phenotypic similarities between Harriett and her brother. The blonde hair, the shape of the eyes, the round nose and broad smile… it was not entirely ridiculous to imagine that John would look very similar to her, if he were to-

"Whatever you're thinking, stop it," John interrupted, recognizing the intense look on Sherlock's face for the wild tangent of thought it represented.

* * *

They talked about boring things for a while, business and the weather and the traffic in Baker Street and the newest Thai place that Sherlock had found. Then they talked about truth being stranger than fiction, which had always been a favorite topic of Sherlock's.

"Consider the platypus," Sherlock remarked.

Harry laughed. "Egg-laying, duck-billed mammal. Stranger than fiction for sure!"

"And they're poisonous," John chimed in, and looked pointedly at Sherlock. "Can we tell her about the case?"

"By all means," Sherlock granted permission, sipping her tea.

John told the story the way he planned to write it up on his blog; mysterious death of a young woman, no sign of foul play except that her dog was poisoned to death the same night.

"So it was just a _coincidence?_" Harry gasped, after seeing the picture of the duck-billed dog-killer on John's phone. "And that's what you _do together_," Harry realized, voice flat. Sherlock's eyes got a little colder at her tone. "The two of you… solving mysteries…stranger than fiction, definitely. I'm seeing it with my own eyes and I still can't believe it."

John gave Sherlock a worried glance, one that meant, _she's-on-to-us!_

Sherlock ignored him, gazing steadily at Harry. "How do you mean?" she asked.

"Now, don't take this the wrong way," Harry began. "Because you really are _a masterpiece_ and I completely adore you, but you don't seem like John's type of girl."

Sherlock smirked at that, intrigued. "And what 'type' of girl is that?"

"A feminine one," Harry stated, eyes twinkling.

Sherlock arched her neck a little, and quickly drummed her fingers in staccato against the arms of her chair, before steepling them in front of her chin. "_Feminine_," she repeated, as if it were a foreign term. "Is there even a legitimate definition for that word anymore, in this day and age?"

"I'm not criticizing, I'm just, you know, _observing_," Harry clarified with a little smile.

Sherlock shifted in her seat a little more, weirdly like a cat who'd found a particularly pleasurable surface to knead with its claws. "Of course, John's informed you that I can tell a person's life story just by looking at them, so you've decided to test your own powers of observation on me."

"Want to know what I've _deduced?_" Harry asked.

"Absolutely." Sherlock's eyes fluttered to half-closed.

"Okay," Harry giggled, already enjoying herself, and jumped in. "For starters, you're wearing no make-up, no jewelry—your ears aren't even pierced, are they?"

"They are not," Sherlock admitted, sounding impressed that Harry had noticed.

"Your clothes are as masculine as they can be without actually coming from the men's section, and you're sitting in your chair right now with your knees a mile apart," Harry continued.

John rolled his eyes. He'd corrected Sherlock on that knees-apart business once, in the cab on the way back from Mycroft's, but in the flat Sherlock sprawled or crouched or stood or marched over the furniture as Sherlock had always done, and John never saw a reason to say anything about it.

"There's not a purse or a handbag or pair of shoes or a coat anywhere in this room that a woman would own, and out of all these stacks of books there isn't a single one that I'd expect a woman to read, no popular fiction or _Jane Austen_ and certainly not anything that might be considered '_chick lit_'. And when you first laid eyes on me you complimented my boots,"

"Women often notice other women's shoes," Sherlock interjected, sounding just a little bit doubtful.

"Yes, but your own shoes are hideous and you haven't so much as _glanced _at my boots even once since you complimented them, while if you'd _actually_ liked them you'd have been eyeing them this whole time, like John's been doing."

John dropped his face into his hand, sighing, unable to defend himself even a little bit.

Harry laughed and leaned forward in her seat, still focused on Sherlock. "You only said you liked my boots because you thought you were supposed to. Maybe you promised John you'd be nice to me? And one more thing—the boxing. Not spinning or Pilates or yoga. _Boxing_. And no, John didn't tell me."

Sherlock didn't blink. The punching bag itself was currently out of sight, stored in the hall closet. So the only way Harry could have known…of course. "The skin on my knuckles," Sherlock said. "Scrapes four days old, nearly healed, but still noticeable."

"I recognize the pattern," Harry said triumphantly. "I've done a little boxing myself."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed, her face half-cracking into a smile. "Care to _spar?_"

Harry sat back in her seat with a quick little tip of her head that made her ponytail swish a certain way. "I thought we were already."

John laughed. "Oh my God," he muttered, barely repressing a wave of giggles. "You two. _Get a room_."

Sherlock's smile quivered down into the opposite thing. She jerked sideways to glare at John, suddenly offended. "John, _please_ don't act on your impulse to infer sexual overtones in situations where none exist."

"Leave him alone, darling," Harry chastised playfully. "He's only teasing!"

Sherlock turned on her, lightning-fast. "Would he be teasing if he told you to _go sober up_?" She added an extra edge to her voice, slicing out the final word. "_'Darling'?_"

"Sherlock," John said firmly. "That's enough."

Harry was chewing her bottom lip, looking very thoughtful. She glanced back and forth between Sherlock and John, trying her best to figure out what she was looking at. John met her eyes. "Sorry about that," he said to his sister. "Sherlock's just, ehm, she has this horrible habit of insulting everyone she meets." He rubbed the back of his neck, and then tried to lighten the mood. "You know, I _tried_ spraying her with a water bottle whenever she does it, but she just can't seem to learn."

"You never tried anything of the sort," Sherlock snorted, drawing her feet up onto the chair and gathering her knees to her chest for a proper sulk. "But thanks to your lowbrow comment, I'm now wrestling with the issue of how un-attracted I am to your sister."

Harry snickered, reassuring John that she found this whole thing rather amusing and there'd been no harm done.

"Anyway, Harry, you _were _right," Sherlock admitted grudgingly. "Cosmetics and jewelry and _shoes_… according to those insipid stereotypes I'm not the most 'feminine' of women. And because of that, you think it's strange that your brother is attracted to me."

Harry looked shocked. "What?" she gasped. "Is that what you think I—no! That isn't what I meant at all!"

"Then what _did_ you mean?"

Harry laughed, blinked, looked down, brow furrowed. "You know," she said when she looked back up. "I'm not even sure. It's just… you weren't what I was expecting, at all. For the longest time I'd wanted a good look at _the man_ who'd saved my brother's life, and suddenly you're a woman instead, and then I couldn't help noticing you weren't really feminine. But you're still attractive, oh my God, of course you are! Your eccentricity, your energy, your genius, all your mysteries and adventures—the fact that John's attracted to you is the _least_ strange thing about you!"

Sherlock narrowed her eyes. "What about his _physical_ attraction to me? Is it necessary for me to reciprocate it?"

Harry balked. "Necessary? I don't… I mean, it's certainly nice, in a relationship."

"But it doesn't make _sense,_" Sherlock insisted. "If it's chemical or biological, if physical attraction boils down to genetics, then if I am attracted to John, why shouldn't I be attracted to his sister as well, the person most genetically similar to him?"

"Er, no, Sherlock," John pointed out. "By that reasoning, I would have the hots for Mycroft."

"Perish the thought," muttered Sherlock. "Although that comparison _does_ help me feel a little better about my lack of attraction to Harry here. It isn't that I _dislike _her; in fact there are some things about her I like very much. But the sexual attraction isn't there. Despite how she reminds me of you in some ways, I think _Lestrade_ is actually more appealing to me from a strictly sexual perspective."

While John looked thoroughly mortified by that little bout of too-much-information, Harry just quirked an eyebrow. "Hold on," she said to Sherlock. "You _do_ know it's possible to _like_ people without being sexually attracted to them, right?"

"Yes, I know that very well, from personal experience in fact. I happened to _like_ your brother long before I had any, ah," she stopped, realizing she'd said too much. She looked over at John, trapped.

"It's fine," John said quickly, holding her gaze. "I felt the same way, before."

Sherlock looked grateful then, while Harry just looked confused. "Wait. I'm missing something." She turned in her chair to square off across from her brother. "John. Are you trying to tell me it actually took you more than five minutes to get this woman into bed with you?"

John inhaled, and tucked his lower lip into his mouth, unsure of how to answer, and looked back at Sherlock.

"At the moment," Sherlock said in a low voice, staring at John. "It feels like it took forever."

"Riiiiiight then," Harry said, laughing. "_Now_ who needs to '_get a room_'? Seriously, you love-birds, you're liable to spontaneously combust if you keep staring at each other like that!" she rummaged in her handbag and pulled out her phone. "I should probably leave you to it, honestly. You know how it can be at the airport. Wouldn't hurt to be a little early for my flight for once, rather than sprinting to the gate at the last minute like I usually do. Especially in my new boots. My flight's—oh bollocks."

"Cancelled," Sherlock said, and gave John the most ridiculous look.

Harry was still scowling at her phone, tapping and swiping the screen. "Yeah, cancelled, how'd you guess? Nevermind, I know, it's just what you do. Bloody airlines! This says the next flight's not til the morning! Six A.M., bloody hell." She looked up at Sherlock, then at John. "I hate to impose, but would you mind if I stay over? Do you have a guest room? Honestly I'd rather sleep on your couch over there than take a train home tonight and have to figure how to get to Heathrow for a six A.M. flight tomorrow."

"We'd be delighted," Sherlock said, in one of those rare instances that proved she really did know how polite, normal people interacted on a regular basis. "You can have John's bed upstairs."

Harry blinked a few times. "…Thank you," she said, hesitantly, eyes darting over to John, full of questions.

Sherlock traced her thoughts and sighed. "Yes of course he's got his own bed," she explained in annoyance. "We're not married, we're flatmates."

Harry looked at John with a record-setting expression of incredulity.

Before John could open his mouth, Sherlock went on: "We don't sleep together _all_ the time; too distracting when I'm working on cases."

Harry seemed to buy that; her face settled into a look of acceptance mixed with surprise. "oh," she laughed. "Right, cases! That suddenly explains my brother's eagerness to help you solve them."

"No doubt," Sherlock smirked.

"So!" John said brightly, changing the subject. "That new Thai place we were talking about earlier, shall we head that way for dinner?"

It was going to be an interesting night.

* * *

_A/N: heeeeeee! I don't care how many times I read it or what crazy circumstances cause it. John & Sherlock FINALLY getting into bed together just makes me so happy. If you feel the same way... leave a review! :D_

_p.s. confession time. I know so little about "chick lit" that I originally misspelled Jane Austen's name. Yes I know I must be punished for that! Anyway... tbc._


	13. Chapter 13: Shut Up and Cuddle

A/N: sorry this chapter is so late...I owe you all a thousand apologies! Please forgive me? also, be warned, extreme fluffiness ahead...

* * *

Chapter 13: Shut Up and Cuddle

After a delicious dinner, and only several drinks (Harry was strictly in control of herself, to John's relief), the three of them made it back to Baker Street.

Sherlock decided to take a shower and John put clean sheets on the bed on the third floor despite Harry's insistence that such customary houseguest courtesies were unnecessary between siblings. Once his room was in order, John gathered up his pajamas and his laptop and headed back downstairs. Harry was sitting in John's chair again, yawning.

"You all set for tomorrow?" John asked.

His sister nodded. "Mm. I'll get up at four, take a cab to the airport."

"I'll see you off," John offered. "Make you a cup of coffee or something."

"No, don't you dare! It'll be far too early for any of that. I'd hate to wake you. I'll manage perfectly all right on my own, and I'll get a frou-frou latte at the airport anyway. It'll be my motivation to get there on time. I'll sneak out quiet as a mouse-please promise me you and Sherlock will just sleep in!"

The idea of sleeping in–_with Sherlock_—was one that John hadn't clearly pictured. He felt a little bit like laughing at the very idea of it, like saying something sarcastic, saying _as if that would ever happen_. He repressed the impulse; but Harry picked up on it anyway.

"What is that _face _you're making?" Harry asked, laughing at him. "She _does_ let you sleep, doesn't she? And I can't quite put my finger on _why_, but she doesn't seem like a morning person." Without letting John answer, Harry heaved herself up out of the chair, grin gleaming in her eyes. "You know, John, I do think she's wonderful. I think you're wonderful together. This big secret you've kept all this time—it's fantastic. I can totally see why you love each other."

"Thanks," John said, not knowing what else to say. Harry leaned into him for a quick hug.

"I'm glad you're happy," she said over John's shoulder, squeezing him. "I'm glad you found her."

"Me too," John said, as Harry stepped back.

"Well. I am off to bed," she said. "Early start and all. Can't thank you enough for letting me barge in and impose like this."

"No, it's no problem." John's face and voice were both soft with sincerity. "Really, Harry. It was good to see you. And you're welcome to stay over anytime; it's no bother at all. We do have the extra bedroom."

He got through that with a straight face, with only a tiny waver in his inflection as he said it, and thankfully Harry gave no indication of suspecting that it had never been an extra bedroom at all until that moment.

She thanked her brother again, and bid him goodnight, and headed upstairs.

John held his breath until he was absolutely sure his sister was out of earshot. Then he took one huge breath in and sighed it back out, accompanied by a couple contemplative little head-nods to reassure himself that he knew what he was doing and this was going to be fine.

* * *

Sherlock was still in the shower, so John tried to make himself at home in her room. It felt odd to change clothes in there, so he did that quickly, underwear and pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt, which was exactly what Sherlock was wearing when she finally stepped into the room, rubbing her wet hair with a towel. Her pajamas were comically oversized on her, having not been upgraded to match her body.

"Oh," she said at finding John already settling into her bed.

"What do you mean, 'oh'?" John demanded.

"I wasn't planning on having sex tonight," Sherlock said, completely straightforward.

"Me neither," John replied. "I know you're still—well, I know we should wait a few days."

"I think I'd prefer that, yes," Sherlock said, a little tensely.

John shook his head. "You're not going to make me sleep out on the couch, are you?"

"No," she told him, sounding insulted that he'd even brought it up.

"Good." John shifted down into the sheets, and then when Sherlock still hadn't moved, he raised his head and glared at her. "Oh for God's sake, get in the bed!"

Sherlock shrugged and scrubbed the towel over her hair for a final time. She put the towel back in the bathroom, turned off the bathroom light, and then in one motion, turned off her bedside lamp and slipped into the bed. She settled onto her side facing John, pulling the covers up to her chin.

Darkness and silence settled heavily around them.

"You breathe loudly," Sherlock remarked after a moment.

"Get used to it," John replied, very matter-of-fact, and was fairly certain he could hear her grinning fondly in response.

"It's an awkward arrangement, sleeping together," Sherlock mused next, after they pretended to _not_ be listening to each other breathe for another minute or two.

"You said we should, though," John reminded her.

"When I said 'sleep together', I didn't mean,"

"I know what you meant."

"Of course." Sherlock made a little noise like clearing her throat. Their eyes had adjusted to the dark now, and Sherlock was searching John's face, back and forth. John gazed back at her, just watching. "John, the way you look at me," Sherlock muttered. "Is it jealousy or pity?"

John sighed and gave her his best _I-can't-believe-I-put-up-with-you_ face. "I don't want to know how you came up with either of those horrible options," he said. "Because you know it's neither of them. I look at you, in, in _admiration_, Sherlock. You know it's always been that way. I am so lucky, so thankful to know you, and to be part of your extraordinary life."

Sherlock blinked, and scrunched her face up, and breathed differently. "And if I feel inclined to act on some physical urge in reaction to what you just said—if such sentiment provokes a physical response, can I—"

John gave a little half-laugh. "Yes, it's okay to act on that instinct. By all means."

Sherlock nodded, staring first at John's face, and then at his shoulder. John waited, intrigued, having no idea what to expect. But all Sherlock did was reach out and pat his shoulder in a very controlled manner, letting her hand settle there just long enough to say, "Thank you John, I admire you too," in a serious voice, before pulling away.

A full minute passed before John realized that the shoulder-pat really was the extent of it, and the inadequacy of it all made him need to stifle his laughter.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked.

"Is that really it?" John breathed. "Oh Sherlock, after everything? _That's_ your expression of physical intimacy?"

"Well, there will be more," Sherlock backtracked, adjusting parameters, searching for approval. John was struck by the sudden memory of the first time he'd laid eyes on the flat, full of Sherlock's clutter. Sherlock had said he could _straighten things up a bit_—for John, only for John, wanting John's approval. Why had John never realized how romantic that was?

"I'd like to kiss you," John said.

"All right," Sherlock acknowledged immediately, in a quiet voice. Clearly she'd been expecting that.

John propped himself up on his elbow, wrapped his other hand over her shoulder, and leaned forward to get the angle right.

Sherlock held very still, and didn't move her lips at all unless to subtly press them together, and she didn't close her eyes until John did, at the last possible second. Their noses touched, then their mouths.

John pressed in until he tasted toothpaste, pushing her tongue back with his own, then retreated to survey the damage. Sherlock tucked her lower lip between her teeth, transforming her mouth into a solemn line that was practically a frown. She gave John a wary, calculating look. There was a heartbeat's space of silence.

"_Well?_" they asked each other at the same time, and Sherlock huffed out a breath she might've accidentally been holding.

"It was weird," she said.

"Completely weird," John agreed almost before she had finished the word, but he was smiling as he said it.

He rolled onto his back, sighed, and stretched his elbows up over his head, lazily resting his hands on his pillow. Seeing Sherlock studying him out of the corner of his eye, he motioned her over with his chin. "Come here."

She sat up and scooted over, finally figuring out how to just lay down against him, her head somehow fitting just-there between his shoulder and chest. John dropped his arm to curve around her shoulders and back, cradling her to his side, and with his other hand he reached over, found her wrist and drew her arm across his torso. She fidgeted for a few seconds, unsure if her arm slung across him was supposed to be holding onto him or just resting there, eventually concluding that the latter was correct.

John slid his arm over hers, as if to secure it in place. He closed his eyes and breathed, liking the smell of her shampoo so close to his face, and not minding at all that he could already feel her still-wet hair leaving a damp spot on his t-shirt.

"_Nhm_," Sherlock uttered after a minute or two, and John thought it wasn't exactly a positive-sounding noise.

"Something wrong?" he asked quietly.

"This arm," Sherlock complained, wriggling her arm that was trapped, folded like a broken wing, between her chest and John's ribs. "There's no good place to put it."

"Heh," John grinned, amused. "No, I suppose not. You want to roll over?"

"Nhm." She made the same dissatisfied sound, but then went ahead and rolled over anyway, letting John snuggle up against her back, one of his arms tucking around her automatically. She tried to get comfortable, but every time she felt him breathing, she tensed up, and found herself bumping forward into his arm, which was sort of trapping her in place. "…this is a lot of…closeness," she muttered at last.

John rubbed his forehead against her shoulder blade, one of those _you-are-being-ridiculous_ head-shakes that he did sometimes. "Most people think that's the best part," he told her, and reached his mouth up and around to the nearest skin he could reach, the side of her neck, leaving a warm wet kiss.

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, and this time she sounded pleased. "That's… _sensual_." Her voice was a husky whisper, if not an outright purr. John folded in on himself a little bit at the sound of it, as if his insides were paper, being crumpled up in sheer desire. "But I wouldn't exactly call this comfortable," Sherlock plowed on, ironing him out again. "There are too many limbs to keep track of; your knee against the back of mine, for example, it annoys me, it's too warm. And you're _breathing_ on my neck, it's distracting—"

"Sherlock," John sighed. "Shut up and cuddle."

She blinked a few times, then took a deep breath and tried, really tried, to just settle down. It was an exercise in control, forcing her body to relax, to accept and absorb the flexing motions of the ribcage at her back rather than resist them, forcing herself to ignore the infuriating way that the spacing of their breathing refused to sync up. She figured out exactly where John's legs were behind hers, and forced herself to stop being annoyed or surprised by the fact that they were there. When she found herself wishing she could just roll forward, onto the cool wide empty side of her bed, away from the breathing and the warmth and the gentle confinement of being held in place by John's arm, she abruptly reorganized her thoughts, remembering exactly why she was in this predicament in the first place—she wanted John, wanted _everything_—but then of course that train of thought wasn't getting her anywhere, and if anything she felt more claustrophobic than before.

The only thing that kept her from making her escape was that every few minutes, John kissed her again, giving her an incentive to stay in place. He kissed her neck one more time, then twice he kissed her shoulder, pressing his lips to the fabric of her t-shirt and muttering little pieces of words, and finally, after a few more minutes, he kissed back of her head, kissing her hair. Sherlock guessed that last kiss was meant to be the 'goodnight' one, since John's breathing smoothed out afterwards and became somewhat less antagonizing, and easier to relax against, even if it still didn't conform to her own.

She made an honest attempt to follow John into sleep, but soon gave up. There was no way she could sleep this… crowded. Biting her lip, she wondered what was the best way to peel herself away from her sleeping…_flatmate-friend-boyfriend?_…_John_. She didn't want to wake him. Should she try to inch away slowly, in increments, or just roll free all at once? One thing was sure. She'd have to get out from under his arm.

He mustn't have been that far asleep after all, because when she tried to move his arm, he drew in a ragged breath and woke up, realized what she was up to probably by the way she froze in place, caught-in-the-act, and so he lifted his arm away, letting her go.

She wriggled away from him, taking the offered way out. "I'm sorry," she whispered, and meant it.

"It's okay," John mumbled back groggily. "You tried."

She couldn't help but smile, and watched intently as he resettled himself without her body there to cuddle against. He closed his eyes, breathed in once so deeply it looked split-second painful, and then his face rearranged itself into a last fragment of a conscious thought, which Sherlock could almost hear beginning with: _well, that was…_ before he dropped back into sleep, his expression fading away.

Sherlock stared at his face for a long moment, until she felt lightheaded and realized she'd forgotten to breathe. Giddy then, excited by having suddenly experienced something so primal and powerful that it overrode the boring old instinct for oxygen, Sherlock slid across the bed as far away from John as she could get. There, she could keep her limbs splayed however she wanted, no obstacles in their way, and there was nothing pressing her with _breath_ and warmth and weight. Freed from all expectations of intimacy, she really was more comfortable, but she felt a small pang all the same—a sort of disappointment at expectations unmet.

She refocused her gaze on John, unsure of what she wanted in that particular moment. The resumption of 'cuddling' was out of the question, since she'd only just escaped from that, but she just couldn't ignore the fact that he was _there_, his physical body present beside her, available. Touchable.

Minutes passed, slow and heavy, but she couldn't fall asleep. Finally, acting on one of those absurd physical impulses, she reached out and curled her fingers around his hand. He didn't stir, so she dared to scoot closer, wrapped her fingers just a little tighter.

She waited, watching him, and thought about moving his arm again, maybe bringing his hand to her face so she could kiss his palm or maybe his thumbprint, just because she could. It was a nice thought. But she didn't act on it, and instead she kept thinking and holding John's hand there in the space between them. The minutes continued to drag on, each one duller and dimmer than the last, and sleep finally seemed like a possibility.

At last she realized what she needed to do—it was so simple, so obvious what she'd missed—John had kissed her; she'd neglected to kiss him back. She hadn't really considered it before, but in a sudden rush the thought of kissing him saturated her mind so completely it was difficult to remember that she'd ever thought of anything else.

Keeping her hand on his, she leaned in and brushed her lips against his cheek. He might've reacted, faintly, unconsciously—she wasn't sure, and she didn't care. She dragged her lips and the tip of her nose down his face, until she reached his mouth.

There she hesitated, her head hovering over his, their faces touching, testing his lips with her own. She had no intention of invading his mouth with her tongue as he'd done to hers in their earlier kiss. This was all she wanted, right here. She breathed out, breathed in. Kissed him.

Kissing worked much better, she realized, when both participants were awake and able to exert some pressure in the process. But if John was really asleep, then his soft slack lips would be enough for now. She kissed him again, lingering, tasting him just a little bit. It was good; _he _was good. She felt something; the word _attraction_ seemed a woefully insufficient description for it.

She considered touching his face, maybe just skirting her fingers along the edge of his hair, or exploring the features of his skull where they were concealed under layers of expression and emotion and experience. But to do that would mean letting go of his hand, which she was oddly unwilling to do.

A ridiculous feeling of wanting to stay exactly where she was at that moment took hold of her, even as her brain struggled to fight it off. Of course she couldn't stay in bed with John forever; it was unlikely that she could remain there for even ten hours, so what was the point in feeling that way? Still, she _felt it_, and with it a wave of pleasant sleepiness. Sentiment was _exhausting_. Sleep would be welcome.

Sherlock kissed John one more time, and then closed her eyes.

They slept face to face, sharing a pillow, with Sherlock holding John's hand.

* * *

A/N: sooooooo fluffy... sigh! and yes, this is STILL tbc... I can't believe you all are still reading! (but I'm happy that you are!) :D


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